Story of Us trilogy 01: TouchStone for Play (3 page)

It must be the heady perfume from the bouquet that
causes my head to spin: I’m stunned. I realise I’m holding my breath and, for
fear of actually fainting, I exhale. I catch my reflection in a pane of glass
and come face to face with a young woman with wide blue eyes the colour of a
summer sky and an ‘O’ shaped mouth: it’s me.

Time for a reality check: is this just a game, an
attempt to draw me in, to have me fall at his feet, merely to satisfy his ego?
In the space of five minutes my feelings go from elation and sheer delight, to
rock bottom disappointment. I should know better, men don’t respond to me
that
way. But he has ... and the flowers are so lovely and, besides, who hand writes
a poem like that just for fun? Maybe Ayden Stone does?

For the hundredth time, I run through our conversation
and I’m smiling, I’m also a little flushed just remembering the way he threw
his head back to drink and how the thick band of platinum wrapped around the
middle finger of his left hand, and the way he played with the bottle top and …
I shudder myself out of the memory, feeling a twinge of something that simply
isn’t decent at 5 o’clock on Monday afternoon. No-one has ever made me feel
quite so, out of control.

I pour myself a tall smoothie and nibble on a quiche.
On my kitchen table is my copy of Pride and Prejudice and on my mind is my
favourite quote: “
The Very first moment I beheld him, my heart was
irrevocably gone.”
What am I thinking?

I quickly rid myself of that foolish thought and begin
my research. Let’s see who you are Mr. Stone.

As I read his biography, I realise he really is a
self-made man: born 1980, London; spent most of his childhood in a residential
care home and wasn’t adopted until he was 12 years of age. Young Entrepreneur
of the year 1998, having been the brain child of ‘A.S. Media International.’
Included in the U.K top 20 Rich List in 2000 and set up the ‘Pay Back
Programme’ in 2010. There are rows and rows of achievements that just fill the
page: he’s the real deal.

My eyes fill with bubbling tears, I’m overcome with
regret, not because of a missed opportunity but because I behaved unforgivably.
Towards the end of our conversation, he tried to speak but I wouldn’t let him.
Was he trying to articulate the words he has so eloquently included in a poem?
Will I ever get the chance to say I’m sorry?

My mind is in turmoil. He was right, sometimes worlds
do collide, it might end in tears but, who gives a fuck? I’ve spent my whole
life waiting for a ‘collision’ just like this.

Bedtime brings little rest; I wrestle with my pillow
and struggle to find a settling thought. I have visions of a neglected and
broken boy and my heart aches. I find solace in the fact that he’s tough and
he’s come through the flames like a blazing phoenix. Nothing fazes him, not
even the possibility of rejection. What did I whisper in his ear? "You
didn’t win Mr. Stone." I want to take it back. Scattered on my carpet are
pictures of him; they’re like fragments of a puzzle I may never get the chance
to piece together. That’s the thought that has me tossing and turning for most
of the night.

Dan Rizler takes a cigarette from the packet, taking
care not to crush the filter between his fingers. He’s a former boxer; he
claims to have the strength of two men and considers his hands to be his
weapons of mass destruction. No-one messes with Dan.

It’s 0500hrs. Most mornings begin the same way, with a
hard on. The trick is to keep his eyes shut tight; his special girl lives
behind them, in that secret place that only they know. If he peeks, their
precious moment is lost and the image of her vapourises, leaving nothing more
than a fading ghost.

The cold shower purges him of his brutish notions and
leaves him to shave unhampered by further hauntings. He takes his time shaving,
tracing the outline of his firm jaw, watching the brown hues return to his
eyes. There was a time when the ladies found those dark brown magnets
irresistible, they would do anything for him; all it took was a nod and a wink
and they’d be his for the taking. The recollections of backroom antics and
bouts of all night boozing, make his mouth twitch. Wiping the foam from his
cheeks, he reassures himself,  “You’ve still got it Danny boy.”

At 39, he’s the youngest of a four man team of
maintenance men at The University of Cambridge. He takes his job seriously,
likes the shift work; he considers checking out the ‘pretty young things’ a
perk of the job, that and the free lunches.

He leaves early to beat the rush hour traffic, knowing
the A10 will be clear and he’ll be able to make good time. He prides himself on
his timekeeping. He’s never late. That’s something he learned in the army: be
punctual and be prepared. It’s his mantra and his guiding principle.

First stop his locker. Speaking to no-one in
particular he mutters, “I bet that bitch in E4 has put another complaint in
about me … you know what she needs? A seeing to. If I had the time, I’d pay her
a visit one night and wipe that smug fucking smile off her face.” He’s
straightening his back, lifting his head to gain extra inches, increasing his
physical presence, being six foot four and 15 stone just isn’t big enough.

He spits out something under his breath, it sounds
like “bitch,” but his footsteps cover the sound and it becomes nothing more
than a hiss.

With a kick and a tug, his locker door opens and he
checks to see if anyone is around, there’s no way he’s going to share
her
.
Tucked away under a prospectus is a photo; the faded picture is of a pretty,
dark haired girl in her late teens, wearing a pair of jeans and a black
sweater; he rubs his thumbs over the sweater and his breathing quickens at the
thought of sliding his hand up inside. He knows what he’s doing; he’s seen it
on the internet; getting her hot and ready won’t be a problem for him. The
snapshot is one of his favourites, that’s why it’s there. How could he be
expected to start the day without her? It’s one of hundreds he took with an
expensive camera with a zoom lens that cost him over a week’s wage. “Worth
every penny,” he growls, salivating over her delicate frame.

A short burst of adrenalin triggers his breathing and
those accustomed feelings travel at the speed of light to his groin, making him
hard, again. He slides his hand down inside his boxers and touches himself,
smiling and whispering, “I’m saving this for you Princess.”

The sound of approaching footsteps ends his special
moment. He scowls and slams the locker door shut.

A cheerful looking fellow of around fifty with
thinning brown hair and glasses sidles up next to him, “Alright Dan? You’re
early?”

“Mornin’ Ernie, traffic was light, made good time.” He
doesn’t like to chat, but he’s known Ernie a while and they’ve had a few
laughs.

They undress, keeping their backs to each other and
put on the required black work pants and T shirt, with the added bonus of the
University insignia. It’s not what he’d wear given the choice, but it gets him
into all kinds of places that an everyday outfit would not. How many times had
he been called upon to unblock the toilets in the ladies’ changing room at the
gym and forgotten to mention that he was in there? The prospect of scoring another
job like that gets him through the day.

“Hope we’ve not a lot on, Monday’s can be busy.
Fingers crossed, eh? “Ernie, closes his locker.

“Yeah, but I think it’ll take more than crossing
fingers to stop this fucking lot from making work for us.”

“You’re right there. Do you know what the buggers did
outside Lamont? They filled the sculpture with cans and bottles. And they’re
supposed to be the bright ones?”

“You don’t have to tell me Ernie. I was called over to
the undergrad dorms and some bastard had busted a shower, torn it right off the
fucking wall. Took me half a day to put it right.”

“And I bet you didn’t get so much as a kiss my arse?”

“Wouldn’t have been so bad if I had. There were a
couple of nice little arses I wouldn’t have minded kissing or bending over a
desk.” That thought touches a nerve and he sits down to fasten his laces,
giving himself time to settle.

Ernie pats him on the back. “I’ll leave that to you
champ. I’m a bit too old for that kind of talk.”

“No problem, I can handle your share,” Dan calls out
after him, still feeling the after effect of something sweet between his legs.

“I’ll check the jobs list and we’ll draw straws for
toilet duty. Ladies or gents, you’re welcome to it. Gets my guts rollin’,  that
smell. Puts me right off my lunch.” He’s sticking out his tongue like a lizard
tasting the air.

“Leave it to me, Ernie. I’m use to clearing up other
fuckers’ shit. I hold my breath and count to sixty. By then, the worse bit’s
over.” Dan stands tall, his chest fills out his work shirt, he’s fearless.

Ernie, checks his watch and compares it to the one on
the wall. “You’re a good lad Dan. We’d better make a move. Can’t stand here
chatting all day, shit happens.” They share the joke and stroll towards the
office, Dan at the rear and Ernie in his shadow.

It’s 1500hrs, the journey home to Ely only takes Dan forty
minutes but he can do it in thirty on a good day, minus the tourists.

“Hello. Honey, I’m home,” he calls out to his golden
coloured cat, the only female he has ever cared about, bar one.

His one bedroom, ground floor flat is no more than two
rooms and a bathroom, slotted together into a tidy matchbox shape. For a man of
his size it’s adequate, or it would be if it wasn’t for the piles of newspapers
and magazines stacked like stalagmites along every wall. There is only one
special area, his favourite place, facing his cork noticeboard where he stands
and remembers.

His face casts a ruggedly handsome reflection in the
window pane as he fills the kettle with water. A mug of hot tea, that’s what he
needs. He relaxes a little, feeling Honey weaving herself around his ankles,
not for attention but for food; his awesome frame towers above her but she
isn’t intimidated by his size. He gives her what she wants and her behaviour is
merely instinctive.

“There you go honey.” He amuses himself with the
endearment. “Get your teeth into that and I’ll tell you all about my day.” He
scrapes out the remains of a half empty can of cat food and leaves it by his
feet. “Let’s have half an hour to ourselves, then I’ll get to work. We’ve a job
to do, I feel lucky tonight.”

He places the day’s newspapers and magazines on the
battered sofa, throws yesterday’s take-away box off the single chair into a
black bin bag and plonks himself down. On his knee rests a new pizza box: it’s
pepperoni. He hits the news channel on his TV remote and lets it wash over him;
he lives in the present but his thoughts reside in the past. Distant memories
are as vivid as they were seven years ago. Letting go simply is not an option.

Fifteen minutes later, with the sizzling taste of
pepperoni and cheese tingling his taste buds, he prepares to start the night
shift. He is not a man to shy away from work, especially when it’s the same
thing he did yesterday and the day before, and the day before that … looking
for her.

The chair seems to give a grateful wheeze when he
eases himself out of it and makes his way over to the kitchen table, carrying
today’s purchases under his left arm. They drop onto the pine table with a thud
and sit patiently waiting to be scanned for any trace of her. Laid out on the
table is his equipment, tools for the job: a pair of scissors, a pad and a
pencil at the ready to take notes to plan, to orchestrate an abduction or, at
the very least, the consummation of a sexual encounter left unfinished.

An antiquated computer stands tall at one end of the
table; any minute now it will be coughing and spluttering its way around the
internet, pausing to catch its breath on social network sites like Facebook and
Twitter. It may have been almost seven years but that’s nothing to him; he’s
determined, ruthless and unrelenting in his search for Francis Parker.

Before starting his labour of love he glances up at
his noticeboard at the hundreds of faded photographs, held up by coloured
stickpins. Some of the photographs have become frosted and blurred over time,
others have yellowed around the edges but, there is no mistaking the fact, they
are of the same person: his obsession, his girl, his princess.

Around the board is a length of dusty, gold tinsel, a
left over from six Christmas’ ago. The memory of the Christmas he spent with
her in his head, in his bed, it’s on replay. So much so, that it shifts and
changes with every new recollection, each time there’s a new addition; each
time a confirmation of their festive union. How does something that was once
fantasy become corporal - it just does!

It’s 0100hrs and another wasted night. No sign of her,
but he knows she’s out there, thinking about him, waiting for him. Every night
he gets one step nearer to finding her.

He stands eye to eye with her faded image, remembering
her smell, her voice and that look in her eyes, it excites him, makes him hard
and ready. His mouth opens slightly and his hands unwrap, pinning her to the
noticeboard with human hand cuffs.

“I’m going to find you, Princess.”