by Dan Proops
‘I care about you. I just think it’s odd she’s refusing to meet.’
Adam looked up from one of the letters. Cassandra was sitting back in her chair. Her face was elfin, her eyes plaintive. And she was slight, managing to reach five foot three in height. But her voice was commanding and strong. She’d been to a girls’ boarding school and spoke with a voice that gave the impression she was descended from aristocratic heritage, or royalty; it was a resonant voice. Truly English and truly Cassandra.
She wore a black hat and a black coat with a woollen collar. Her doubts were infectious. Adam took the letters and put them in the wooden box he’d brought with him to protect them.
‘Show me something that happened when you were kids,’ Cassandra asked.
‘Look at this.’
Adam went through the letters and removed a page from the sheaf of paper. He ran a finger down the side of the page and placed it on the table.
‘Here. It was when we were very young.’
When Darius was working on his third novel he’d take Adam and Sarah to Kensington Gardens to see the palace and then to lunch at a cramped Chinese place. In her letter, Sarah spoke of the morning she was accused of treason.
It was a warm afternoon, humid, under a sky of dense cloud with the promise of rain. They were standing near the palace in front of the impressive gates with swirls of gilded leaves, and behind them a gravel path that led to the great house. Adam had been complaining. He was tired from the heat and a lack of sleep. But Darius loved the palace and the park; he’d speak of the history of the place, and Sarah said he was being a ‘right bore’.
‘Dad, we don’t want to hear about the palace. It’s boring, just boring.’
Sarah was wearing a pretty white dress and her red shoes with little white socks. She had a collection of red shoes.
‘Why is it boring?’ asked Darius. ‘History’s not boring.’
‘The Queen’s silly. She doesn’t do much does she? I think I’d make a good queen.’
Adam laughed. Darius didn’t, and he said, ‘Sarah, the Queen’s not silly. Don’t speak like that.’
‘Dad, you give me one reason why the Queen’s not silly.’
Darius thought for a while. Then a while longer. It seemed he had no answer why the Queen wasn’t silly. Then he said something about Britain’s heritage, our traditions, our great history of kings and battles fought in medieval times. He said England was a country that had a rich and fascinating history.
Sarah had a pretty face, with blonde hair in ringlets. She smiled at her father, then without warning she ran around outside the palace gates, squeaking, ‘Silly Queen. Silly silly stupid Queenie.’ Then Darius was chasing her and Adam was laughing about the whole thing. ‘You can’t catch me Dad! And if I had my way I’d be queen and give all my money to the needy. I’ve read in the papers that she has millions.’
Sarah was out of breath from tearing about the place throwing out derisive comments about royalty. Then she stopped, red-faced, sweat glistening on her cherubic face. She ran to Darius who took her in his arms and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a naughty girl. No Chinese for you today.’ Sarah’s expression changed. She loved Chinese. ‘Daddy, if you don’t let us have Chinese, I’m going to stand in front of these big gates and say how silly the Queen is. And I won’t stop.’ Darius laughed and said he was only joking. The three of them, with Sarah giggling and saying ‘silly Queen’ every so often, made their way to High Street Kensington.
Cassandra was on her third gin and tonic and the pub had become busier as night had fallen. She’d spent a long time on the passage and Adam had watched as she read about Sarah and her treason. Cassandra adjusted her glasses, then looked up from the letter.
‘Maybe I’ve jumped too fast. Maybe it is her. This wasn’t reported in any paper.’
‘No, it wasn’t. Do you believe me now?’
‘Just give me a few more minutes.’
Cassandra sat back in her chair re-reading the letter, her face all concentration. After a while she looked up, removed her glasses, rubbed her nose near her brow, then replaced them.
‘I’m shocked, to be honest. This is incredible Adam. You must feel amazing. When’s the next letter coming and when are you going to tell Darius?’
‘I’m not going to tell him. She doesn’t want me too.’
‘You have to, Adam. It would make him so happy.’
Eleven
The next morning, Adam went to the kitchen and Nigel was lounging on the sofa in the front room reading yesterday’s Standard. He was whistling. He’d been whistling out of tune for four days. Adam did his best to ignore it and went to make coffee and toast with lime marmalade; he opened the fridge and the pot of marmalade was empty. He slammed the door and made coffee with buttered toast, then he heard Darius’s stick on the ceiling. Before seeing to his father, he approached Nigel.
‘There’s no marmalade.’
‘Sounds like you’re accusing me, Adam.’
‘The pot was half full a few days ago. Either there’s a little fairy who likes lime marmalade, or you’ve taken some.’
Nigel closed the paper and sighed, as if Adam had irritated him and was spoiling his morning.
‘I’ve had the odd marmalade sandwich. Is that a crime?’
‘No, it isn’t. But you should have asked.’
‘I didn’t think it was important. I’m a guest here, Adam. Surely a guest has a right to a bit of marmalade. I’m surprised you haven’t called the police.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Me being ridiculous. You’re acting like a spoilt child. Get a life.’
Maybe Nigel had a right to his marmalade, soap and shampoo. His neck ached and his shoulders were drawn up, hunched, the muscles taught. Nigel went back to his paper, and the whistling started again.
‘Nigel, just tell me if you want to borrow something.’
‘Of course, I’m sorry. Can I borrow some cash?’
Adam ignored him, and heard the stick on the ceiling again. He left the room and prepared his father’s breakfast. He made the tea and took two digestives and placed them on a tray. He stood outside the door and knocked. After inviting him in, Darius sat up in bed and reached for his glasses, and Adam asked how long Nigel was going to stay for. He was also ready to tell him about the letters. It was time. It was time he knew about them.
‘He might move in. I’d like that.’
‘I have no say in this? He’s driving me nuts.’
‘I like him. He keeps me company in the afternoons. We have nice chats about books. He’s very well read.’
‘We’ll talk about Nigel later. Dad, prepare yourself. I have some good news.’
‘Spit it out then.’
‘I’ve been getting letters from Sarah. I think she’s alive. She’s living in—’
‘Who’s been sending them?
‘Dad, she’s alive.’
‘You’re offering me false hope. They’re probably hoaxes.’
‘They’re not hoaxes. There’s stuff in them that’s private. She’s spoken about events that happened when we were kids. Don’t you want to see the letters? We’ve found her, Dad.’
‘I remember the hope they gave me when she was sighted, in the early days, then Walker told me they were all made up.’
Darius tapped his stick a few times on the floor, sadness in his eyes and across his face. He looked up from the floor to his son.
‘Dad, I love you. Please believe me. Why won’t you just look at them?’
‘Let’s not talk about it now.’
‘Darius, I—’
‘Leave me alone. I’m tired. I need my breakfast.’
Adam was walking to the studio and the rain was heavy. He had no coat and the rain ran down the back of his neck, his wet shirt clinging to his back. He was walking down a deserted side street, the road caked in litter, with dirt, and pools of black water at the curb. But he was oblivious to the weather. Then the vision.
He
saw the trees in Central Park, flashing gold in the afternoon sunlight. And he was searching for her. He walked deeper into the clusters of trees and the wood became dense with bracken, leaves and fallen branches.
It was hard to push his way through the forest, as the undergrowth hindered his progress. Ivy climbed around the elms that were decaying and rotting. Adam took a branch from the forest floor and beat his way through the ivy, hacking at it with the stick. The roots of old trees were knotted around his feet, the ivy thicker. He saw a parakeet on a wide low branch that was almost torn from a tree, and Adam smiled at the bird. It flew from the branch and its beak tore flesh from his face, and he thrashed blindly at the bird. It screamed and flew back to the broken branch. Then he came across it: the fallen tree.
He saw Sarah in a glade, bright with sunshine, laughing with her children. A man with an old coat and food on his collar was standing behind her. He raised a knife that flashed white in the sunshine. Adam tried to call to her, but had no voice. Travis took Sarah’s head, held the knife under her chin and said:
Adam, I thought you’d taken the notes seriously. I’m going to show you how I did it. I’ve always wanted to show you. Now you’ll see. There’ll be a lot of blood, Adam.
Adam’s back was wet and cold, and some people were above, looking down at him. The sky was a dark grey behind the faces.
‘He’ll be all right—he’s just fainted.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘Used to be a doctor. He’s got a bruise on his forehead.’
‘He looks terrible.’
‘He may have concussion.’
‘Poor boy.’
‘Is he hurt?’
‘Not sure. I saw him fall.’
‘He looks awful.’
‘He’ll be all right.’
Adam sat up and pushed himself against a wet wall, and the man who said he was a doctor was holding his wrist. He was old, with white hair matted to the side of his face, and rain was running down his cheeks. He had a kind smile and said Adam would be fine, but was worried about the bruise on his forehead.
‘I’m going to call an ambulance. You fell. What’s your name?’
‘Adam—name’s Adam.’
‘You had a nasty fall.’
‘I don’t need an ambulance.’
‘Best to be certain.’
Adam took the phone from the old man and threw it into the road. He said he was fine. The man retrieved his phone and ran a sleeve over it.
‘Sorry. Is your phone okay?’
‘Working fine. No damage done.’
Adam thanked the man for his kindness, then stood up. The crowd had dispersed. The man took him by the elbow to a nearby café and bought him some coffee, and said he’d stay for a while. He asked Adam some strange questions: where he was born, his second name, what city he was in, and who was the leader of the opposition. The man seemed satisfied with the answers.
‘Just wanted to check you’ve got no amnesia. Seems like you’re fine.’
‘Yes, I think I am. You’ve been very kind to me.’
‘I think it’s time you went home. I’ll pay for a taxi. Sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine. I have money for a cab.’
Twelve
The next morning Adam woke with a headache. The day came to him as he wrestled with troubled dreams. He remembered walking in the direction of the Underground and then he was on his back on a wet pavement and a kind man had looked after him.
The memories of finding her in the wood had come to him as if they’d really happened. In the past, Cassandra had tried to persuade him to see a therapist. Adam had no intention of following this suggestion, as he’d seen one a few months after Sarah had disappeared and it had been an appalling experience. The therapist had asked him about his past, about the bullying he’d endured at a boarding school in the country. He said childhood trauma was compounding the pain of Sarah’s loss. Adam left the therapy sessions after three weeks.
The morning ritual was ahead of him. Adam went to the bathroom; it had bare floorboards, flaking paint coming away from the walls and a window with a crack in the frame. The bath was old with rust around the plughole. It was the coldest room in the house. He showered, then took his towel and tied it around his waist. He reached for his hairbrush. There were blond hairs embedded in the bristles. He took the end of one and drew it from the brush.
He found Nigel in his usual position, reclining on the sofa in the front room. It was a poor excuse for a sofa, sagging in the middle, the brown cotton discoloured in places; the colour was a shade darker than the brown carpet and a shade lighter than the brown walls that hadn’t seen paint in a decade.
Nigel was whistling again. He was reading the paper, his legs crossed. ‘Morning, mate,’ he said, without looking up from his newspaper.
‘Listen, mate, there’s blond hair in my brush.’
‘You’re angry, Adam. Have a nice cup of tea and calm down.’
‘I told you to ask me if you wanted to borrow something.’
‘Forgot, mate, forgot.’
Adam stood there for a moment unable to speak. Nigel was whistling again and then laughed at something in the paper. ‘You gotta read this Adam. An old woman, some artist, got arrested for walking naked down her road. She said it was a performance art piece. And the case continues! Fantastic.’
‘How’s the job hunting?’
‘Having a break for a bit. Taking some time off. You’re not going to whine about your brush are you?’
Adam turned abruptly and, holding the evidence, made his way upstairs. He rapped twice and without waiting for a response he pushed the door. His father was sleeping, his mouth agape. Adam sat on the chair next to the bed with the brush on his lap, touched Darius’s shoulder and woke him.
‘I want Nigel out of here, Dad. I can’t stand it anymore. Look, he’s been using my brush.’
‘Are you losing your senses? You woke me up to tell me he’s used your hairbrush?’
‘It’s not just that; it’s some other things.’
Adam reeled off the list of crimes: his toothpaste was disappearing at an alarming rate and there was never enough butter or lime marmalade. Darius looked bemused and there was a hint of a smile as he plumped up some pillows. He put one behind his back and then reached for his cane. As morning sunshine filled the room, Adam thought of Cassandra’s house in Chelsea, the walls painted a powder blue.
‘Dad, I’m serious about this. If you don’t get rid of him, I’ll leave.’
‘Don’t threaten me. You want Nigel to leave because he used your brush? You’re losing your mind.’
‘I haven’t been in a good state, but I wish you’d get rid of him.’
‘The subject is not up for debate.’
Adam decided to give up; he could tell that his father was in a foul mood and this was not the time to argue over Nigel. Darius put on his glasses and, leaning back in bed, he opened his book.
‘I wish you’d read the letters. She’s alive, Dad.’
‘Don’t start that again.’
‘Why are you so stubborn? Even Cassandra believes they’re real. She doubts everything. I said I—’
‘I’ll wait till some more come. I want it to be true.’
‘Dad, she’s alive. It’s that simple.’
‘Let’s talk about it later.’
Adam hovered for a moment, tempted to push it further, but thought better of it. He went down to the hall and found Sarah’s letter amongst the junk mail.
Thirteen
Adam made some coffee, doing his best to ignore Nigel, who was still whistling. He went to his room, waited a while, sipping his drink as he looked at the envelope, and then cut the paper with his letter opener.
The situation with Sarah’s son had deteriorated, and she’d tried to take him to a children’s therapist with little success. Oliver had spent the session huddled near a chair, unspeaking, surrounded by children’s toys. The doctor was recommended to her by Mrs Blythe.<
br />
I’m sure you’d be good with children Adam, but I’m not. I don’t know what to do about my son. Alec said he was making his ‘life hell’ and had only so much patience.
We’re having a trial separation. Oliver’s moods and depression made it hard for Alec to run his business. And even though he can be a real bastard I feel very alone without him, alone and vulnerable.
Adam looked up from the letter, at the shelves holding the albums of press cuttings. He didn’t want to think of her being alone, and the word triggered apprehension. He was worried for Oliver. Adam was caught with a desire to see his nephew and thought he could help in some way, and wished he could communicate with Sarah. Her reluctance to meet was becoming more dispiriting.
The initial fervour when Sarah had been found had faded to frustration and a sense of helplessness. It was like reading a newspaper, where he could read of events, but couldn’t answer the cries of anguish.
He picked up the letter.
... So I feel a bit weird with Alec gone. I don’t think he’s coming back. And I’ll have to deal with Oliver on my own. And not only that, but remember the man I met in Prospect Park—Travis? Well, I’ve got friendly with him. I wrap the kids up and take them to a wooden table near some trees under a pagoda. The only time Oliver’s happy is when he’s out in the park, and Travis is there a lot, feeding the parrots. He’s very good with Oliver.
Travis sits in his old coat with his plastic bag full of crumbs. He told me he used to have a company, a food delivery business that failed. He’s a bit weird sometimes: he can fly off the handle, but I think he’s okay. Well at least I hope he is; he’s an oddball in some ways and he’s a bit aggressive sometimes. The other day he went off in a rage after I asked how he lost his money. You can’t trust anyone can you?
He’s so alone Adam, as am I. Cities can be lonely places can’t they?
Adam would seek them out. He’d go to Brooklyn and find this Travis and find out if she was all right. He knew where she went, the park for one, and a few streets she’d mentioned in her letters. He was to meet Cassandra in High Street Kensington later that afternoon and he’d tell her about his plan to go to New York. Adam folded the letter and put it in the wooden box.
