Touchstone

Here it is ... the Prologue to my novel, Touchstone ...

Prologue

Unruffled by the silhouettes of a vacated city life, the woman glanced blankly in both directions and crossed the road. A half open gate lured her into a grassy quadrant, its miniature gardens divided by neat cobble-stoned paths and surrounded by gold-tipped railings. She felt safe there. An oasis in a concrete desert. The woman perched on the edge of a love bench, its wood velvety from the damp night air. `To my darling husband ~ My best friend`, its brass plaque read. Nearby, a horizontal tree trunk, smoothly planed and highly polished glinted in the dim light, reminding the woman of some giant jewel in a children’s fantasy story. `Cherish Our Brave Daughter, Charlie 1978 ~ 1989` the dedication read. Eleven years old. She considered the garden, her eyes sweeping from one nurtured corner to the next and back again. In a perfect harmony, nature had softened the disciplined lines into a leafy haven, its mystic, almost heavenly charm attempting to console the woman. Some people did care, she thought, unravelling the photograph and examining the creased image. Her lips parted as if to speak and closed again. Rummaging in the coat’s pockets as if responding to the urgency of a mobile phone, she pulled out a folded cotton handkerchief and dabbed repeatedly at her nose, wondering what she would write.

Gothic lanterns lined the pavements like redundant policemen in a long inflexible queue, their muted yellowy shadows leading her along a riverside path and onto the Millennium Bridge. Muddy water slapped at the buttresses as she drifted along, drawing wavy lines through the banister’s condensation. Where the steel structure met with concrete stanchions, her patterning blocked, she stopped and leaned over the handrail, gazing into the distance as if looking for answers to unasked questions. She tugged at her collar, Edward’s collar, hugging it around her neck, pushing the ends of her hair inside to keep warm. It was time. She knew it. Fumbling for the inside pocket of the greatcoat, her gloved hand bonding with the fabric, she retrieved a flat half-bottle. Stroking the glass with a tenderness usually reserved for babies and lovers, she followed its bold lines with the tip of her black kid finger, trailing every letter, symbol, mark, each leading to the same conclusion: Vodka 40%. She clambered onto a shallow concrete platform between the pillars and stared down into the gloomy water, sipping gracefully as if being watched by some distinguished personage at a grand gala dinner. She saw no reflection which pleased her. She swigged from the bottle, its transparent liquid searing her throat and transferring her pain. Her eyes stung, caustic from mascara mixed with tears. Another gulp pulsated downwards. Her body ached. Her mind, wiped out. In the distance, a motor-bike’s low growl replaced her bare thoughts with jaded memories of their first date. She remembered her giddy response to his sudden request. She remembered too many things. If she could only forget.