TouchStone for giving (The Story of Us Trilogy) (62 page)

about the shipment to Riyadh airport last Friday morning. Realising they meant business, she told

them everything; that included taking photos of the file in Stone Heath and Dan’s involvement. They

asked her for his address and she said she didn’t know where he lived but, the minute they touched her

cheek with the tip of the blade, she had folded like a paper bag in the rain.

Having already seen what they were capable of, Dan had been quick to scarper. Unwittingly he had

walked into a minefield, with no way out, bar one. He’d grabbed what he could from Elm Gardens and,

with nowhere else to go, sought refuge in his car. He has long since stopped trying to call Jack and

Elise. Their numbers are no longer available. He’s on his own. But not for long.

As the morning mist clears, and a smattering of sunlight appears through clouds, so does a vision; a

blonde haired woman wearing a black skirt, a white blouse and a fitted jacket. At first, he can’t believe

his eyes but, as she stops, gaining her bearings, pirouetting like a porcelain princess, his senses stir

and he’s back in the game.

Keeping a good distance behind, he follows her in the direction of Sloane Street. From a couple of

doors down he watches her enter a florists, a jewellers and a chemist; he looks on while she sits

outside a coffee shop eating a sandwich and flicking through a magazine oblivious of his eyes upon

her and the effect she’s having on his libido.

With his car around the corner and nothing to lose, he assesses the situation. He has to approach

from behind, subdue her quickly and make his escape; three easy moves. But, before he can formulate

a plan she stands, begins to walk, pauses and sticks out her arm for a taxi. Unable to stop her, he

makes a dash for his car, remembering the first three letters of the black cab’s registration.

With a loud screeching sound, he pulls out onto Sloane Street overtaking one car then another in a

desperate attempt to catch the taxi. But there are so many. He puts his foot down and spots one

stopped at the traffic lights. Sat comfortably on the back seat is a beautiful blonde maiden. He signals

and forces his way through, braving the wrath of irate drivers, responding to their cursing with a

barrage of expletives of his own, until he is positioned two cars back. He has her in his sights and

there’s no way he will lose her now.

Twelve minutes later, he slows to a grinding halt, happy to observe her paying her fare and entering

Harrow Hill Grammar School on foot. Thinking ahead, he takes out his phone and scrolls down until

he finds Taylor & Main’s number. He lets it ring.

“Hello, Taylor & Main, Elise speaking. How can I help you?”

At that Dan sniggers. “For starters, you can drop the fucking fancy voice,” he snarls. “You’re not

fooling anyone Elise.”

“Well, if it isn’t Desperate Dan? Still alive then?”

“You got that right. Take more than a couple of wankers to take me out,” he states.

“You vacated the premises after my call then?” she assumes, rightly.

“I did …”

“Then aren’t you going to thank me?” She’s goading him.

“Thank you? If it wasn’t for you and your fucking boyfriend, I wouldn’t be in the fucking mess!” he

yells, banging his fist onto the steering wheel in a fit of temper.

“Me! I didn’t want to do it. It was all your idea. You were so desperate to get your fucking princess

on her own, you took a chance and it’s backfired. That’s got nothing to do with me.” She’s sniggering

down the phone. “I don’t know why you bother. She wouldn’t give you a second glance, even if you

were the last man on the planet. She’s out of your league champ.”

“No she isn’t. She’s right here…”

There is silence. “There … where’s there?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he huffs.

“”Frankly, I couldn’t care less. I have Plan B to fall back on, remember?”

“No I don’t. I’ve got my own little Plan B going on here, and it’s looking mighty juicy …”

“You’re so full of shit! Where are you, in some seedy bed and breakfast, wanking off to a faded

photograph?”

“Fuck you Elise! I’m at Harrow Hall Grammar and about to reintroduce Miss Parker to my cock if

you must know.”

She’s laughing down the line. “Well, good luck with that Dan. Give her my best.”

Long after the call ends, all Dan can hear is her laughter; he’s screwing up his eyes, shaking his

head, but it will not go away. With his ego crushed, there’s only one thing that will rid him of his

debilitating affliction, and she’s ripe for the picking.

Preparing to leave Sloane Street behind I’ve flagged down a cab. The journey to Harrow Hall

Grammar School will take around 15 minutes. Time enough for me to read the instructions on my

pregnancy testing kit. All it takes is a small urine sample and five minutes of my time, apparently; an

insignificant amount of time for such a substantial discovery.

In the school car park there are only two vehicles, neither of which I recognise. One belongs to a

carpet fitter and the other to a company of Better Builders. I give them a sideways glance and enter the

building via the rear door that has been wedged open. Bypassing my classroom, I head straight for the

ladies bathroom on the first floor. In the empty hallways my feet echo on the polished tiles, striking a

merry beat to accompany the sound of distant whistling.

Hiding in the bottom of my handbag is an eyebath; the perfect, little receptacle for my steaming

urine sample. With some careful trickling I half fill it and place it on top of the cistern while I make

ready.

The small white stick sits comfortably in the golden liquid, requiring nothing more than patience to

develop.

Turning my back on the experiment, I lower the toilet seat and sit down. I have five minutes to

consider the implications of a positive result too mind-blowing to even contemplate.

Four minutes.

I rummage through the contents of my bag, not looking for anything in particular, simply filling the

time with a seemingly worthwhile task.

Three minutes.

The second finger crawls around the face of my watch like the shadow on a sundial. I’m fingering

the kiss and the heart charm on my bracelet, occupying my mind with a memory of an airborne space

not much bigger than this. He is miles away but he’s here with me in spirit.

Two minutes.

I think I might stand but I won’t turn around to look. Not yet.

One minute.

My heart is racing. Pesky little butterflies are stirring in my stomach. My thumb nail is between

my teeth. I’m as nervous as hell.

It’s time.

I take a life affirming breath and lift out the small white stick from the tiny puddle of pungent

liquid, and stare at it. To my utter amazement, there are two deep blue lines in the test response area.

That means only one thing …

With a thud, I land on the toilet seat, flipping the tell-tale indicator over and over between my

finger and thumb.

“Fuck!”

After a couple of minutes of numbness I pack away my things. In my hand sits my phone. Do I call

Ayden now? No. I’ll tell him later tonight, at a time and place more suited to the occasion.

I check myself in the mirror over the sink. I don’t look any different but I sure as hell feel different.

I’m smiling and watching the skin crease around eyes that are glistening with joy. The afternoon sun

cascades through the window, picking out blonde streaks in my hair and illuminating my face. I’m

blooming already.

Clever Ayden. How did he know?

It’s 1.30pm. Corridors usually bustling with noisy adolescents are deserted; the only sounds

echoing through the empty spaces come from power tools somewhere. With work to do, I envelop

myself in music and uplifting thoughts. On my desk are schemes of work, the inevitable tower of

books waiting to be checked and essays waiting to be read.

I glance at my phone. There’s a message from Charlie, asking about the joys of married life and one

from my husband:

Darling wife, it is with great anticipation that I look forward to your return this evening. Should

I bring anything home other than myself for your delectation? I love you. A. X

I quickly text back:

Darling husband, you need not concern yourself with my bodily or nutritional requirements. I

can assure you they are being well met. See you at home. I love you more. B.X

The phone sits in my top drawer. The sooner I complete my chores, the sooner I can leave, jump in

my car and head home.

By 3.00pm my brain is fried. To the music on my desktop computer I’ve marked, commented and

set targets for sixteen pupils. I’ve had enough. It’s time to call it a day. I close my eyes and listen to

the dulcet tones of Carly Simon singing
The Right Thing To Do,
smiling at the appropriateness of the

lyrics. Preparing to shut down I hear my classroom door opening but pay little attention to it, focusing

on the computer screen. “I’m about to leave. Are you locking up?” I ask.

“No,” growls a voice from across the room.

I look up, hearing the unfamiliar voice and what I see causes my heart to miss a beat and blood to

freeze in my veins.

Fuck! It’s him.

“Hello Princess. We meet again. Have you missed me?”

Out of sight, I drop my hand into the drawer and with a couple of sideways glances, text two words

to Ayden:

Save Us.

With it sent, I press Speed-dial 1. I hear Ayden on the other end but his voice is a garbled hiss of

indistinct words. I speak for his benefit and for my life.

“No. I haven’t missed you and I’m not your princess. You should leave.”

He approaches me with a lascivious grin and I lurch back reflexively. “Now that’s not what I’d call

a warm welcome. I thought you’d be pleased to see me, after all this time.”

“Well, you’d be wrong.” I throw down my pen to make a point. In actual fact, I could piss my pants.

All I have are my words. I glance at my phone and read the text. There are three words:

WHERE ARE YOU???

“What are you doing here? This is a school. There are people everywhere.”

“No, there isn’t. We have all the time in the world to get reacquainted. We have a history, you and

I.” He tips his head to one side and fixes me to the spot with a monstrous sneer.

“No. We haven’t,” I say sternly, watching him throw down a heavy rucksack that rattles before

hitting the carpet with a noisy thud.

He approaches my desk. “What is it they say princess? Two’s company, three’s … you know the

rest.”

He towers over my desk and positions himself on the edge, undressing me with his lecherous eyes.

“You haven’t changed. Maybe you look a little less innocent since Stone’s been sinking his cock into

you but no worries. I can live with that.”

“You’re disgusting. Ayden Stone is my husband.” His words are making my skin crawl and he

hasn’t even laid a finger on me – yet.

“Yes, he is and I will take great delight in taking away from him what belongs to me.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” I hiss, pushing back my chair, edging away.

He’s laughing. “Frances, you always were a fighter. That’s what’s so special about you. I like a girl

who’s prepared to fight back. But …” He reaches out to touch my hair and I duck to avoid his

enormous hand. “But a smart girl knows when she’s beaten and stops fighting or …” He moves

quickly and takes a handful of my hair in his left hand. “… Or, princess, you might get hurt.”

By my hair, he drags me around the desk. Only now can I appreciate the gravity of my plight: he’s

enormous. And, more worryingly, he’s deadly serious.

To think, minutes ago I was contemplating an evening spent in the arms of the man I love, breaking

the news that we are having a baby, and now my perfect life is about to come crashing down around

my ears. The last voice I will hear could well be that of my demon.

Ayden’s three words come back to me. He must know where I am now. I have to keep him talking

because out there on the roads of north London, there will be a silver Rolls Royce mounting curbs,

overtaking on the hard shoulder and doing 90 down side streets to get to me
.
He’ll be out of his mind.

Save us Ayden …

I take a courageous breath and ask softly, “What do you want?”

“You know.” He leans in, pressing my back against the white board, flattening his body against

mine. I feel small and helpless. He licks my face. “I want to be inside you and to taste you. Like last

time.”

“But why me?” I turn my face to one side to avoid his tongue.

“Because you’re perfect.” His hand drops from my hair and finds its way around my throat. I am

pinioned against the wall by a rough, heavy hand; the vice like grip could tighten and crush my

windpipe in a single movement.

With his remaining hand he fondles my breasts and tears open my blouse. I reach up to beat away

his hand but he stares me out and tightens his grip, causing me to choke. “Now, be good Frances.