by Dan Proops
‘Sure, Harold. Hope you make up over the fridge business.’
‘Thanks. I’ll get back to you.’
Adam hung up and was pleased he’d done something positive. Why hadn’t he come up with this idea before? Of course he could contact Sarah though Harold. Things were looking up, and instead of berating himself for being a fool, congratulated himself for coming up with the idea to send his letters to his uncle. The only thing that concerned him was why Harold needed to think about it. Anyway, that was no concern of his. All he had to do was to come up with some subtle insults for Nigel that he would be unable ‘to tell Daddy’ about. Pity. Calling him a cunt was a lot of fun.
This was the time to call Cassandra, when he didn’t hate life as much as he usually did. Although he was still praying for World War Three. Every time he saw a headline, he hoped to see: Nuclear War! World Under Threat!
With a hint of brightness and being in a surprisingly good mood, he called her.
‘Hi, Adam.’
‘Hello, Cassandra. It’s been ages. I wondered how you were.’
‘I’m fine, Adam.’
He told her about the church, the kind priest and that they were friends. Then a surprise: she asked him over to dinner at her house in Chelsea. This was a great sign! Maybe something would happen. Maybe he could make something happen to win her back. Life had been appalling without her and he needed reconciliation; he needed her love and to reciprocate it. He’d avoid speaking of Sarah. He’d avoid all things relating to her. They were to have dinner the next night; tomorrow he’d see her and he’d make it all right. The future was golden, and he’d tell the priest all about it.
The phone went and Harold said it would be fine for Adam to send him a letter; he’d make sure Sarah would receive it. This was it, the beginning of a new era. The only shadow over proceedings was Travis. Adam was worried for Sarah. He’d say something about it in the letter he’d write. He’d make her feel safe.
He arrived in Chelsea and looked across the river to the lights in houses and workplaces on the opposite shore rising up behind the houseboats. He was comfortable in his leather jacket and he’d bought a bouquet of white roses. He knocked on the front door and saw light come alive in the hall, then he heard her, then he saw her. And Cassandra had painted her lips a dark crimson and her eyelids were silver and bronze, her lashes heavy with mascara. She was wearing a black velvet dress and a simple gold necklace.
‘Come in.’
Adam followed her into a marbled hallway. He gave her the flowers. She breathed in the perfume and her face was bright with gratitude. She said they were lovely but he shouldn’t have spent so much. Cassandra made whiskies, a single with ice for herself and a double, neat, for Adam. They were in a grand front room with Georgian windows overlooking a pretty garden, and fashionable shutters painted cream were pulled halfway across the glass. Adam asked how it was going at the library and Cassandra said it was fine, that everything was fine. She kept using that word. An awkward conversation followed. Small talk, as if they were on a first date. They drank some more. Adam realised he’d had enough to drink and was on the verge of inebriation.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a new friend, Adam. Why did you go to a church?’
‘Because my life was empty. Because I missed you so much. I was unhappy and the priest was kind to me. We smoked together.’
‘You started smoking? Why?’
‘Because I’ve been distraught about us. I thought I’d lost you.’
‘Things haven’t been good between us for a while, have they?’
‘They’ve been all right. All couples argue. I just spoke to Uncle Harold and he’s had an appalling row with his wife over a fridge. We can make things better, can’t we?’
‘Maybe.’
Cassandra put her drink on a side table and looked away, anguish on her face, as if things weren’t better, as if they never would be. She turned to Adam and offered a weak smile, and he leant over and tried to kiss her. She put an arm round him, and pulled him closer and there were wet whisky kisses, and she said she wanted to take him to bed. She led him into the bedroom, with wooden floors, more Georgian windows and a tall palm tree in a corner reaching to the ceiling. They lay on the bed. Adam pulled at her bra strap; a drunken, poorly-judged lunge. She said nothing, took off her dress and sat there as if she were offering herself for sacrifice. Adam sensed reluctance and embarrassment in her. He took off his jacket and shirt, leant over and touched her shoulder, then ran a finger down to her breasts without feeling, without feeling anything, as if he were touching a statue.
As she pulled the bedding around her, he clambered into bed and removed his trousers. There was no lust in her eyes or actions. He kissed her again.
Adam was drunk and unsure of himself, and he wanted to make it all right, as it was before, when their lovemaking was beautiful and sacrosanct. Not this awkward struggle. Cassandra lay back, her arms behind her head, submissive. Then he was above her, inside her, shifting and shunting, and she was quiet as she looked at him, and there was nothing there, nothing but his inadequacy and the pained look to her, and he wished he were sober. He pushed deeper, and then she was sobbing, and her tears came freely as she told him to stop. She rolled over to face the wall, and he saw her shoulders shaking.
Adam was desolate, with nothing to offer, with nothing to say. The desperation was aching inside him as she quietened, as her crying became softer. He asked if she was all right, but there was no response. He lay back, his head falling to the soft down of the pillow. All he wanted was to make her happy and she was lying next to him in tears.
‘Cassandra, are you all right?’
‘No I’m not.’
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing. I wasn’t thinking of you, Adam. I was thinking of Nigel.’
Adam struggled for his trousers, then, with tremulous fingers, reached for his shirt. As he was dressing, she said:
‘I’m so sorry, Adam. I thought I could make things all right. I love you, but I don’t feel like I used to. Everything’s different.’
He didn’t respond and needed to get out, to escape, to be far away from her. She sat up and wiped away the tears and there were more apologies as he reached for his jacket. Adam said nothing as he left the room and found himself out in the cold. With no money for transport, he walked towards Earl’s Court, his heart aching for what she’d meant to him, for the time they’d been happy, for love lost, for the emptiness he now faced.
Twenty - Seven
The next morning Adam was woken by a knock at his door. He was silent, and the knocking came again a little louder. Adam mumbled ‘Come in’ and Nigel stood in the doorway with two cups of coffee. He was smiling. Adam rubbed his eyes.
‘I brought you a coffee.’
‘No thanks.’
‘Had a good night? You were out till late. Been out on the town? Cavorting with our city’s nymphets I suppose. Don’t blame you mate.’
‘I want to be alone. I’ll see you later.’
‘Your room still needs a clean. I can see you haven’t even tried with the windows.’
‘Close the door after you.’
‘Course. Good to catch up. Always good to see you. I like our little chats, don’t you?’
‘Goodbye, Nigel.’
‘See you later, mate.’
Adam had some back pain, his limbs ached and his head felt like a slab of stone. The hangover echoed his mood: dull, desultory and desolate. He took an old laptop from a cupboard, found some paper and began:
Dear Sarah,
Finally I have a voice and am able to speak to you. I’ve enjoyed your letters. I doubted the first of them. I wanted to believe in them, then I met Harold; I might come over again soon, but money’s tight. I’m glad your illness has improved and Oliver’s doing better. At least he’s talking to his therapist. I hope Maddie is well too. Your letters mean the world to me Sarah. I don’t have a lot going on in my life at the moment, but knowing you’re well k
eeps me going and gives me something to feel good about. Don’t go into the woods too much, as no one can see you there—stay in the open my darling sister. I can’t wait until you’re ready to meet. Loads of love to Oliver and Maddie. I love you Sarah.
Adam
He folded the letter, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Harold. He could speak to her now. No more one-way communications. As long as Harold was able to deliver the letters, he could tell her about his life and there’d be a two-way conversation. He put the envelope in his coat and went downstairs. Nigel was in his place, lounging on the sofa staring into space. He turned to Adam and spoke in a bland voice.
‘Hi, what’s the news?’
‘No news, Nigel.’
‘How’s it going with Cassandra? She said you went over last night.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘She told me all about your little visit. Sounds like it was a bit of a disaster.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Of course you don’t. Silly me. She’s a cool chick, ol’ Cass.’
‘Don’t call her a chick.’
‘Chick, bint, tail—all the same really.’
Adam walked in the direction of the Soldier’s Arms. The weather was becoming milder, as spring was approaching, and he was warm in his leather jacket as he walked through the morning sunshine. Nigel had done his best to agitate him and had succeeded. Adam had tried to ignore it, but it was impossible. How he was to tolerate him was beyond him, and his plans to ignite a friendship, to improve their relationship, had failed magnificently. And his intentions to be kind, to be good to him, had vanished like smoke in a strong wind.
Adam kissed the envelope, then dropped it into a letterbox and, walking past the church, thought of the kind priest. He went to the newsagent, bought cigarettes and lit one. Maybe he should speak to him as he was desperate for someone to talk to, and it was then he realised how lonely he was. Cassandra had always stood between him and solitude; he hadn’t needed friends when he was with her.
The previous night, which had been successfully filed at the back of his mind, came to him vividly: a night of abortive love-making and bringing her to tears—a million miles from the ecstasy he’d wanted her to experience. I was thinking of Nigel.
He should go to the studio, as he hadn’t been in two months, but he wanted to speak with the priest. Adam entered the church, looked up to the golden Christ, and sat on a front pew and waited. He wished he could have prayed and wished he believed in Him. The church was dark, apart from sunlight drifting in through the stained glass windows. Then he saw the priest.
‘Well, hello,’ he said. ‘It’s my smoker friend.’
‘Morning. I came because I was lonely.’
‘Why don’t you come upstairs? I have some tea brewing.’
‘Sounds great.’
Adam followed him up a narrow twisting stairwell to a small room with wooden floors and walls painted red. There were a few sepia photographs of a bygone Earl’s Court hung above a crumbling mantelpiece with no fire, just unlit wood nestled in a grate. A table was covered in a cloth of red, white and gold. The priest pointed to a wooden chair and Adam sat down.
‘What’s your name?’ he said.
‘Edmund. Or Ed. Yours?’
‘Adam. Guess that’s a biblical name.’
‘Yes, you were the first man. The first God created.’
‘I feel like the last man, not the first.’
The kettle boiled and Edmund took it off the hob and poured the water into a china teapot decorated with flowers and leaves. He took two cups from a shelf and gave one to Adam. He pulled his cassock around him, adjusted his white collar, and sat on one of the high-backed chairs. He smiled, a smile born out of kindness. He took a sip of tea.
‘There. A nice cup of tea. Good for the soul,’ he said.
‘Is it? I don’t have a soul.’
‘We all have something at the heart of us that’s bigger than our character or personality. It’s our essence. Guess that’s the soul.’
‘There’s only darkness and hatred in me.’
Adam told Edmund first of Cassandra, then Sarah, and finally his hatred of Nigel Hawthorne. He revealed parts of his life he doubted he’d tell anyone else, and Edmund listened with a quiet politeness and invited Adam to talk about himself a little more. Adam spoke of his loss of Cassandra, the delight of receiving one of Sarah’s letters, and then returned to Nigel and the vitriol he felt towards him. He explained that he was forced to live with a man he detested, and then asked Edmund if he’d ever hated anyone, if his faith allowed it, and if so, how he dealt with it.
Edmund had been listening to Adam with his full attention and seemed intrigued by Adam’s predicaments, especially ‘the problem of Nigel’. Edmund said every man goes though periods of their life when they disagree with others, and said that he’d experienced the emotion of disaffection rather than hatred. He said compassion for all men and their weakness made hatred redundant, at least to him. Then he said he was dying for a smoke. Adam said he felt like one too, so they descended the stairwell, walked through the empty church and stood on the same sunny corner where they’d spoken a week previously. Edmund lit his cigarette and Adam noticed the joy in his friend’s face as he smoked.
‘Sounds like this Nigel needs some love or affection. Sounds to me as if he’s insecure. His unpleasantness to you is odd. Seems to me there’s no justification for it. You should feel sorry for him.’
‘I don’t know about that, but I know about the “turn the other cheek” thing. Maybe if I act in Christian ways, I’ll be a little closer to being one.’
‘Sounds like a plan, Adam. See if you can find compassion for him. Looks like he needs some.’
Edmund was on his third cigarette. Adam had been restrained and had stopped at one, as he was planning to give up. Edmund continued with his take on Nigel: he hadn’t slept with Cassandra to be cruel to him. She obviously liked him a lot and maybe she’d instigated it; any man would find it hard to refuse sex offered by an attractive woman.
‘You’ve made me feel better again. I don’t know how you do it, but however miserable I am, you always cheer me up.’
‘Part of the job, making people feel better. Give this Nigel a bit of a break and see what happens. It could hardly be worse, from what you’ve said.’
Adam said goodbye and Edmund smiled, nodded, replaced his cigarettes inside his robes, and went back to his life in the church. Adam made his way to the Soldier’s Arms. He’d have to be kind to a man he loathed and, as he took a coffee to his table, he wondered if he had it in him to show compassion for the Blond Monster. As he entered the pub, he realised he had no power over Nigel’s treatment of him, but he did have some control of how he responded to his quips and put-downs. And maybe if he had the ability to be well-disposed towards Nigel (which he doubted), he might become closer to Christianity, as it would take the courage of a saint to be kind to a man like him.
If it were possible (which he doubted), how would he do it? Murdering Nigel would be closer to his true feelings than showing goodwill towards him. This was a challenging dilemma. He’d been looking forward to making war, to making Nigel’s life as appalling as he could, but now he was to do the opposite. Obviously Edmund could pull off this impossible feat; he was a man who could forgive anything. And then Adam thought of Nigel’s words about Cassandra, his imbecilic unpleasantness, and his cruelty for the sake of it.
Mr and Mrs Smith hobbled into the Soldier’s Arms and made a beeline for Adam. Mrs Smith delved into an old plastic bag while smiling.
‘Here, we bought you this at a pound shop.’
It was a fluffy little sheep. It would have been a nice gift, apart from the loss of its right eye, and it was obvious Mrs Smith had missed this, as her demeanour changed from excitement to disappointment. Adam could tell from the look on her face.
‘He’s only got one eye,’ she said with dismay.
‘Don’t worry abou
t the eye. He’s a cute sheep. Or is he a lamb?’
‘I didn’t notice he’d lost an eye. He’s a sheep.’
Adam told her not to worry about the eye and said it was a thoughtful gift. Mrs Smith started rambling about the sheep, saying she’d wanted to give him something to cheer him up, and Adam consoled her by saying he liked it a lot. After hovering for a few moments, the Smiths wandered off, and Adam heard Mr Smith berating his wife for not being observant enough to notice the sheep’s impediment.
He was left with his book, a whisky, and a sheep with one eye. Concerning Nigel, he considered his new plan to turn the other cheek, then the other one, and back to the first. He’d start off with cordiality as he thought he could manage that at a stretch. Anything more would probably be too great a challenge. He lacked the strength for all-out war, and although he’d been looking forward to combat, Edmund had given him another strategy: an option that might bring him closer to the edges of faith, created by acts of kindness and benevolence.
He had visions of being compassionate to Nigel, of saying kind things, of offering compliments and encouragement. But these imaginings were polluted with thoughts of his murder and how he’d go about it. The initial excitement of offering forgiveness was replaced with a general malaise. His thoughts turned to Cassandra, her awful words and her tears when they were together in her four-poster bed. He’d have to grieve again. The potential end of their relationship possessed a dream-like quality, as if it were not definite. But it was.
He’d planned to escape it by flooding his mind with toxic thoughts towards his verminous houseguest. He’d been looking forward to indulging himself in a prolonged bout of hatred, war, famine, and anything distressing he could bring to Nigel. And now this goodwill nonsense had ruined all of it. He wished he’d never spoken with Edmund; but the chain-smoking priest had become a friend and he didn’t want to let him down. As he left the pub on the way to the studio, he was compromised, as his campaign for Nigel’s destruction was to be replaced with amiability, sympathy and tolerance. As he walked, he thought of his letter to Sarah and was looking forward to her response.
