TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (39 page)

likes to fight … “

“Shut up Jake.” I continue to follow him around the mat, trying in vain to hit him, hard.

“Now, dancing? There’s something you
can
do …” He’s skating around, only just out of my reach:

it’s maddening.

“I won’t be doing any dancing with you,” I snarl. “That’s for sure.” I miss again with a wild swing.

He laughs. “No, but your friend will. She
loves
to dance.”

Now he’s gone too far. I plant my feet into the mat and throw my best punch. It’s below the belt and

it lands with a thud.

“Fuck!” He falls onto his knees, his gloves resting together against his groin like two over-sized

cherries.

Ayden is applauding and laughing behind me. “Bravo. That’s my girl.” He comes over and pulls off

my gloves. “Don’t make a song and dance about it Jay. She’s a girl for God’s sake.”

He lifts off my head protector and ruffles my hair. “It was a dirty punch Beth but it did the trick.”

He plants a soft kiss on my mouth. “Let’s go get ready for Vegas.”

Vegas?

Poor Jake is staggering to his feet, dragging off his gloves and throwing them in my direction.

“That was uncalled for,” he yells

Ayden puts his left arm around my shoulders and we move towards the door. Without even turning

he calls out, “Once you get your shit together, you can find your own way out.”

Before leaving I turn to see Jake shake his head out of the protector and call out, “Bye Jake. Thanks

for the dance.”

He grins and winks. “No harm done.”

We make our way to the exit door laughing and head for the lift, leaving Jake to recover. Our eyes

are still brimming with residual laughter when Ayden turns side on, preparing to speak. “How long

will it take you to pack?” he enquires, knowing perfectly well he’ll pique my interest with his

question.

“Pack? Why would I need to pack?”

“I have to go to Vegas on business. I thought you might like to come along.” He raises a hopeful

brow.

“When are you planning on leaving?”

He glances at his watch. “In two hours.”

“Two hours!” I exclaim. “I can’t be ready and packed in two hours. Just look at me!” I’m tugging at

his vest top. “When were you going to tell me?”

“Right now.” He‘s failing to supress a smile.

“Ayden!”

He’s folding his arms and leaning back onto the reflective panelling in the lift. “Why not? I’ve had

all your clothes brought here. How long will it take to throw a couple of outfits into a case? We’ll only

be there for four days.”

“Four days!”

“Yeah. I’ll make breakfast while you pack and then I’ll help you shower.” He’s cocking his head.

“No, you won’t! We’ll miss our flight for sure if you do that.” Now I’m smiling. “What’s the

weather like in Las Vegas this time of year?”

“I’ll check but … does it matter?”

I’m shaking my head, pushing back a tumbling curl from his forehead. “No. Mr. Stone, you’re

impossible.”

He sniggers. “Bat Girl, you’re adorable.” The lift comes to a smooth standstill. “Go pack and don’t

forget the toys. We may have a chance to play with more than a pack of cards while we‘re there.” He

slaps my backside and closes the lift behind me, ascending one floor to the kitchen.

Two hours …

Dan received a text from Elise at 1500hrs, just as he was on his way home from work. He didn’t

bother to read it straight away; thought he’d make her wait, at least until he’d had a mug of sweet tea

and a biscuit.

Base camp is its usual dismal self. In spite of having cleared out all the old newspapers and

magazines it still has that empty, unloved feel about it. The patchwork carpet is still in need of

vacuuming and the kitchen would benefit from a clean but, what the hell, there’s no rush.

He flops down into his easy chair, checks his solitary text and feels the beginnings of a smile taking

shape on his lips.

Plan B underway. Meet tomorrow night at 7pm at top of Grosvenor Crescent. E.

His Good Samaritan work earlier today has left him in a good mood; his chest is overflowing with

inflated pride. Now this! Things are looking up.

He texts back.
I’ll be there. D.

For once, he’s actually pleased to be having a night at home, to himself. The 74 miles to Elm

Gardens seems like a bridge too far tonight, especially when there’s no guarantee she’ll be there.

Maybe tomorrow, after his rendezvous with Elise he’d pay her another visit. Say hello.

With time on his hands he tips out the contents of his rucksack, looking for his camera. Perhaps he

was a little too eager to tear down his cork board. Those fading photos eased his solitude, helped him

keep his pledge to her, served as a reminder of what he’s holding out for. All he has left now are two

photographs; the one in his locker and the one in his wallet. He needs more.

The camera screen emerges and illuminates his face; eager anticipation fills his eyes but, with

every passing photograph, it fades like the embers of a camp fire. The camera light merely captures

his disappointment. There are so few photographs of her alone that the exercise is becoming a slap in

the face: a stark, technicoulor reminder of his failure. With his mood settling in a dark place his

thoughts wander, ‘How many hours have I spent at that fucking window, watching and waiting?’ His

question festers in his brain, unanswered until, that is, the reply occurs to him. ‘Too fucking long!’

Maybe he would go after all, have a look see. Hurriedly, he throws the contents back into his

rucksack. With long strides he heads for the door. Just then, the cat flap swings open and a tentative

cat places one foot after the other onto the kitchen floor, as if stepping onto an unpleasant surface out

of pure necessity.

“Oh, you’ve turned up, have you? About bloody time.” He grabs his coat from the sofa. “Well, you

can sing for your supper. If you can’t be bothered getting your furry arse in here to greet me when I

get home, then I can’t be arsed serving up your fucking diner. Go catch it Honey.” He slams the door

behind him.

“Don’t wait up.”

The ninety minute drive gives him the time he needs to clear his head. It’s not like him to be so

impulsive but needs must. When he sees the lights are on in 53a his heart almost leaps out of his chest.

He bangs on the steering wheel, feeling exuberant and optimistic. Unfortunately, that spark of

optimism soon fizzles when he sees a tall guy with a dark suit step out of the familiar silver Rolls: it’s

the chauffeur. Dan’s eyes are glued to the rear view mirror in anticipation of her timely arrival. He

waits in vain. Even Stone’s a no-show. He can do one of two things: wait and see what happens or

stroll inside to his apartment. After all, what’s wrong with that? He lives there.

Feeling brazen, he turns off the engine and makes his way towards the security door, whistling a

tune and bending his shoulders into the icy wind. As he opens the door the burly chauffeur is exiting

the building. He steps aside.

“Sorry… didn’t see you there.” He lets him leave and enters the building still whistling, still sure of

himself.

“Thank you,” a voice calls out behind him.

Feeling invincible he trots up the stairs but before he can reach the first landing, he hears knocking.

By the security door, the chauffeur is tapping on the glass to come in.

What the fuck?

“What’s the problem?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know.

The suited guy is mouthing something to him and holding up a large bagged parcel. Reluctantly,

Dan turns, descends and opens the door from the inside. “Got your hands full there mate,” he says,

holding open the door for him. “Whatever it is, it smells good.”

“Yes, it’s Italian food. Would you mind?” He rattles the new, shiny keys to 53a beneath his parcel.

“Could you open up?”

“Sure. Which key is it?” Dan turns the keys around in his fat fingers and, for a second, reveals the

bandage that is still wrapped around his left hand.

The door clicks open. “There you go. Enjoy your dinner.” He drops the keys on top of his food

parcel and heads off upstairs.

“It’s not for me,” the chauffeur states. “But thanks for your help. Do you live upstairs or are you

visiting?”

Dan is grateful to have his back to him, that way he can’t observe the creases forming around his

eyes as he flinches at the question. “Yeah,” he calls out. “Top floor, home sweet home.” He keeps

walking.

“Thanks again. Have a good night.”

“Sure you too.” He hears the door closing downstairs and is quick to close his own behind him. He

leans against it, feeling a slight increase in his heart rate. He bangs his head backwards against the

door. “You fucking idiot. You should have stayed in the car.” At his full height he touches the door

frame and, with his coat on, almost fills the door space. He’s an intimidating figure of a man but the

guy downstairs was his match in stature.

The distance from the door to the window takes only four long strides. Having left the light off, he

can see the full length and width of the cul-de-sac. He pulls back slightly when he hears the security

door close, anticipating a departure. He’s not wrong. The chauffeur returns to the car and collects

another parcel and a bag of something; probably just as pungent and just as awkward to carry as the

last one. He takes that one thought apart.

‘Then why the fuck did he call me back to open the door, if he can manage it now?’ That one

question hangs over his head like a noose.

“What’s your game?” he wonders, catching sight of his sombre reflection in the glass. The welcome

twinge that usually comes with the prospect of seeing his girl has been replaced by self-doubt; it eats

away at his insides like an ulcer, causing acid reflux to stick in his throat.

Putting two and two together he knows who the food is for, but does it make for good mathematics

to include himself in an already irrational equation? ‘Two’s company and four’s a fucking disaster,’

he reflects ruefully.

He locks his door behind him and walks quietly out of the building, careful not to let the security

door slam shut behind him. Dispirited, he makes the long journey home to his empty, ground floor

apartment with no more to show for a night’s work than a headache and a bad dose of indigestion.

Come tomorrow that will have gone and he’ll be able to set his sights on Plan B. He has Elise in his

corner, or is it the other way round?

15

Out
of the darkness two silhouettes appear, one almost obscured by the other. The sign by the door

reads Stone Heath.

Elise pauses. “Make sure you’re quiet. The chauffeur and his daughter live next door.”

Dan nods, says nothing.

With the turn of a key, the front door opens and there is a high pitched hum of a tripped alarm. In a

single, well-rehearsed stroke, Elise scuttles off over to the box and deactivates it while Dan remains

poised several feet away in the shadows by the door physically readying himself for a swift get away.

“Well done. You were right,” Dan announces, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. “These are for

you.”

“No thanks. I’ve brought my own. Besides, my fingerprints are all over this place.” Leaving him

behind, she leads the way. Along the hallway there are single white lights built into the tiled floor,

making it stretch out before them like a runway, pointing them in the right direction. “We’ll take the

stairs, I don’t know if the lift’s working. Be quiet.” A heavy fire door creaks as she opens it onto a set

of stairs. “This way.”

The upper door opens out into the lounge area and, for some reason, they both pause half expecting

the resident to greet them, but that’s unlikely. Elise had already checked: “Ayden Stone is overseas.”

That’s what his secretary said.

“I’ll take a look around.” Dan pushes past her, his brain firing on all cylinders; he has his own

agenda and he’s not about to share it with his co-conspirator. Even though it’s unfamiliar territory,

past experience tells him to keep moving, it’s the boxer’s way: never stay in one spot for too long or

you’ll end up getting caught. He has no intentions of letting that happen. He by-passes the kitchen and

takes off into the bedroom at the far right hand side. Something tells him he’ll find what he’s looking

for in there.

The curtains are drawn and there’s a familiar fragrance that triggers a response. “Frances,” he

whispers. On the bed there’s a discarded piece of ivory coloured clothing and a towel. Spontaneously

he reaches for the satin night gown and crushes it in his right hand. It finds its way to his nose and he

closes his eyes and breathes her in. Hearing Elise’s footsteps he quickly opens his rucksack and stuffs

it inside. He has his scented souvenir, one to give him hours of enjoyment The accustomed tingling

sensation tickles his groin but, hearing Elise approaching, he shelves it for later.