A Letter from Sarah

by Dan Proops

  Darius adjusted his glasses, then gripped his stick.

  ‘I can’t take any more stress. It’ll kill me, the state I’m in.’

  ‘I’m going to phone him later. Nigel’s a good person.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone else here.’

  Darius bashed the stick on the floor by his bed, the frequency and volume growing louder with each stroke. It was as if someone had attacked him for no reason, with malice, without motive. He pushed himself up against the wall, placed the cane across his stomach, then pulled a blanket around him as if the room had grown cold. He crossed his arms and looked defiantly at his son, saying nothing.

  ‘He’s nice, Dad. It’s only a few days.’

  ‘And what would you say if I refused?’

  ‘What would you say if I left you and moved in with Cassandra?’

  Darius was a good strategist but, like a conceited general, he’d manoeuvred himself into a corner. Adam stood with his hands clasped, his father under siege. Darius’s expression changed from defiance to a pathetic pleading sadness, and he took on the demeanour of a small boy, vulnerable and frightened. His hand was tremulous, his voice drenched in self-pity.

  ‘Adam, I’m worried about my health. Please don’t threaten me. I know we argue sometimes but don’t leave me. I depend on you, my lovely son. I love you so much. Say anything, but don’t say you’ll leave.’

  ‘I’m not leaving, but Nigel is coming.’

  He kissed his father’s forehead and went downstairs to the front door, left the house and made his way back to the Soldier’s Arms. At night, the pub was busy with men in suits drinking after the day’s drudgery, workmen with leathered faces and old men with red cheeks from years of drink. Adam took a whisky to his table. The pub was torrid, a cloying heat. A red glow emanated from lamps and candles, the wax dripping to the tables, filling the crevices of cracked wood.

  The Smiths appeared, arm in arm. Adam instinctively looked in his pocket for his book in the hope the Smiths wouldn’t see him, but he was out of luck and Mrs Smith wandered over, waving. Adam couldn’t recall first meeting the Smiths. It was as if they’d always been part of his life. They were old, well past their eighties, with grey faces, white hair and faces like crumpled paper. The Smiths stood near his table.

  ‘We just wanted to check you’re all right.’

  ‘I’m fine. Had a good day. You good?’

  ‘Lovely day. Spent the day in pound shops. Look what I bought, and just a pound! I wanted you to have it as a present as you’ve been through such a hard time.’

  Mrs Smith would speak about Sarah as if she’d been missing for a week, and as she reached into her handbag, Mr Smith was shaking his head, sadness in his eyes, as if there’d been a funeral, as if Sarah was dead. Mrs Smith produced a fluffy white bear with a red collar; she touched his head and gave it to Adam. He said he was grateful for the present and their kindness, but had some reading to do. The Smiths wandered off.

  He thought of the white beaches where he’d find Sarah alive, happy, content, and thrilled to see him. And the tree, the giant fallen oak and her body lying across it, twisted and naked, blood flowing from a wound in her neck.

  The Smiths’ pity, though born from kindness, produced thoughts of his sister; and the anniversary was very hard. Another year. Another year without her.

  Adam hoped she was somewhere pretty. The white beach with the blinding sand was one of the settings for the vignettes, the little plays he’d construct. Or she was resting with an affluent man on a great yacht with a red sunset. Then the woods, dark and warm. It was usually warm in the woods, with the creak of branches, grey shadows between black trees and pools of blue moonlight in open glades. He walked with hope alive in him, as he’d been told she’d be here, deep in the forest, waiting for him. He strode with speed under dark canopies, through blankets of leaves, searching for her. The shadows fell across trees and fronds and wide leaves from unknown plants.

  Then the decaying oak, torn and shredded with fresh wood from a recent fall. The same tree, always fallen, and he’d approach as if it was asking him to come to it, as if it had a voice, and the forest would echo the invitation with the wind in the canopy, hushed whispers, kind and consoling. Sarah’s arm was laid across the fallen trunk, her naked body pale in the moonlight, and the rivers of red pooled down to the curve of her stomach. He stood for a moment, the forest roaring about him, the wind whipping through the foliage of the trees. And then the screaming in his head as he ran for freedom, as the roots of trees twisted about his feet. The woods became darker as he ran through withered trees, as the cuts from thorns tore at his legs. As he fled from her bloodied body.

  It was late now, and the pub was quieter. Adam finished his whisky and bought another. He’d been shaken by the intrusive thoughts and he was unable to prevent them invading his mind. He finished his drink and made his way home, looking forward to inviting Nigel to stay, and hoped there wouldn’t be too much trouble with Darius.

  Three

  Adam called Nigel, said he could stay a few nights and that it had been arranged with his father. Nigel was grateful and said he owed him one. Adam said he didn’t owe him anything.

  The next morning he dressed, then looked at his reflection in a mirror above the mantelpiece. He had a smooth pallid complexion. But he liked his eyes. They were dark green, the whites bright and clear. Adam ran a hand through his hair and it was soft to the touch, and was black as coal with sweeping undulations turning to curls at the edge of his temples. He had a collection of leather jackets and was fond of an old brown one, scuffed to grey at the sleeves and elbows. After making himself presentable, he set off for the pub.

  Cassandra arrived at the Soldier’s Arms bringing the serenity of her day with her. She had flaxen hair with loose curls hanging down to her shoulders, and there were the remnants of highlights, and a faint scar on the side of her neck. She put some plastic bags on the table, then her handbag, then an umbrella.

  Adam had been with Cassandra for four years, but they were in the autumn of their relationship. Sexual contact had become infrequent, and their lovemaking was awkward and tainted with a lack of passion. Their times in bed were tedious, provoked by a sense of duty rather than libidinous cravings.

  Cassandra looked at Adam with concern.

  ‘Have you been thinking about her? I can tell when your eyes are distant.’

  Her voice was measured and consoling. Her hands were clasped around her face, her elbows on the table, waiting for Adam to speak. He said he felt impotent and useless when it came to Sarah, but wouldn’t give up hope of finding her. Cassandra took Adam’s hand.

  ‘You’re not useless. It’s always hard when you’re nearing one of her anniversaries.’

  Adam told her about the intrusive thoughts, of finding Sarah in the woods, then spoke of finding her on a white beach drinking a tall drink. Then other places. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.

  Cassandra listened patiently, taking sips of her gin. Her every movement, however subtle, portrayed compassion and understanding. But sometimes, if he went on about Sarah for too long, she’d lead the conversation away and if Adam didn’t follow she’d become more forthright and say she’d had enough of the discussions regarding Sarah.

  ‘Cassandra, I’m a bit messed up at the moment. Sometimes I’m frightened you’ll leave me. I’m frightened of losing you; I’m frightened of everything.’

  ‘Adam, you won’t lose me. I’ve been around for a good while, haven’t I? And I intend to be around for a long time.’

  ‘Thanks. I can’t stop them, the thoughts of her.’

  ‘You’re always bad when another year’s passed.’

  ‘My sister’s in the world somewhere under my sun and my sky. I’m sure of it—I feel it.’

  Adam and Cassandra spoke for an hour or two, and then Adam said he was tired and wanted to go home. Cassandra didn’t ask him over to stay at her house in Chelsea.

  It was late, past midnight, and Adam was hoping his father
was asleep. He assumed he was, as there were no sounds on the ceiling. He made his way to his room, turned on a side light and sat on the edge of the bed thinking about Cassandra and her comments about Sarah. She had an uncanny ability to be supportive without saying anything specific.

  Adam made himself comfortable, pushing a pillow behind him, so he could escape into his book. Reading—the emancipation from the hauntings. He woke with the book in his hands, he was still clothed, and the room was bright with morning sunshine. He walked down a twisting stairwell to the kitchen, made coffee, and prepared tea and digestives for his father. He took the tray upstairs. Darius, his face gaunt, with high cheekbones, peered at him, and his withered skin was tainted with a yellowish hue.

  ‘Adam, it’s so lovely to see you in the mornings, bringing my breakfast. I’d be lost without you—lost, completely.’

  ‘You’re in good spirits.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the sunshine. It’s a nice day out there. Let’s have breakfast together.’

  His mood had turned, and Adam would take advantage of these situations to talk to his father about writing. Darius had been an author and missed working on his novels; they’d sold reasonably well but were now out of print. He mentioned Sarah’s love of books.

  ‘She was reading literature when you were playing football.’

  ‘Yes Dad, she read a lot.’

  Adam took the tray and empty mugs and walked with care down the staircase to the kitchen. He rifled through the post, and amongst the letters, bills and leaflets was a letter: a letter from Sarah.

  Sarah was alive and well, living in New York. It was probably a hoax, but it was signed. His hands trembling, he looked at the signature for a long time, then took the letter to the front room. It was probably a fake, but she’d mentioned the bracelet.

  When Sarah was ten, Adam had a bracelet made for her. It was gold-plated, and he’d used his birthday money to buy it. It was beautiful with their names inscribed, intertwined: Sarah and Adam Forever. She mentioned it in the letter, and only she knew of its existence, apart from a few friends she’d shown it to. The emotions were rushing through Adam: the brink of hope, the possibility it wasn’t a hoax, that she was alive, living in America, and he held his breath as if he were holding in the hope, as if he didn’t want to lose it. But a photograph of her with the bracelet could have been in the papers, and it would be easy for the writer of the letter to mention it to make the hoax more convincing. Adam took the letter to his room, to the shelves of photo albums that held years of clippings; he’d not missed a single article. After placing the letter on the bed near his pillow he looked up at them, dated and numerically ordered on six shelves. He had to know. If he couldn’t find a picture of her with the bracelet then the letter was from Sarah.

  Adam took hold of the first album. He sat on the edge of the bed, the feelings tearing though him, the edge of desire, of all he’d lived for, the pain of maybe, of perhaps, of Her, of his darling sister. He’d bled love for her for seven years.

  He opened the album and read the first article, a short column: Earl’s Court Girl Missing for Two Days—and her face, smiling, blurred. No bracelet. As he turned the pages he feared he’d see it. At first he worked slowly, scrutinising each article, his eyes scanning; then he worked his way through them faster, his eyes running from page to page. The second album, then the third, then the tenth.

  Hours passed as he trawled through the cuttings and, every time her face appeared, the pain, love and desperation welled within him like great waterfalls, the water rushing over shimmering stones. He turned the pages, and her face appeared again and again. Sarah drinking with friends. Sarah smiling with teeth like pearls. Sarah riding on horseback. Sarah laughing. And then he saw the photograph they’d used in the most recent articles. It was always the same photo, a close-up of her face resting on her palm, her fingers reaching to the side of her face. Then he saw it: the bracelet, shining on her wrist. And the picture had been printed a thousand times.

  It had been so long since he’d looked though the albums, he’d forgotten the final picture with the gold bangle. Adam collapsed on the bed.

  The albums were strewn about the room: a thousand sisters looking up at him. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was her. Maybe the bracelet didn’t matter. Adam lay back on the bed clasping the letter. He heard the stick on the ceiling, the noise he’d come to dread, so he pushed himself off his bed and wondered if he should tell Darius about the letter. He decided against it.

  His father was angry about the strength of his tea, that it was weak, and had too much sugar. Darius went on about his drink, and Adam hadn’t heard a single word. He was thinking about the bracelet.

  Four

  Adam was to meet Nigel at the pub at one. It had grown colder, and a light mist turned the houses into pale silhouettes. He walked down the Earl’s Court Road, busy with traffic, people rushing and women with strollers lost to the mist and cold. He arrived at the Soldier’s Arms and the Smiths were there; they told him he was a brave man. ‘You got courage in spades,’ said Mr Smith. ‘Dealing with all that loss and pain—you got the courage of a rifleman in the trenches.’ Mr Smith liked to talk of World War One, and before he had a chance to ramble on about it, Adam said he had things to do and made his way to the back of the pub. He found his table near a narrow window, black with dirt.

  Adam retrieved the letter and re-read it. Sarah was living in a place in Brooklyn, on President Street near Prospect Park. She had children and a husband with a livid temper, but she loved him. If it was a hoax, the writer had a vivid imagination. The letter was short and there was no return address. This compounded his fear that it was fabrication, all of it, and he was glad to see Nigel make his way over. He was wearing the same suit, pressed and immaculate. There was a handkerchief in his top pocket. He was bright and animated, and leant in towards Adam as he spoke in colourful tones.

  ‘Wotcha mate. All good?’

  ‘Not bad. I told my father you were coming to stay.’

  ‘That’s great, thanks. You look a bit down, Adam.’

  ‘Nothing bad. Just got a lot on my mind. I haven’t been to the studio for a month. I haven’t achieved much lately.’

  ‘Waste of time that sculpting business.’

  Adam was surprised at the derision, and wondered why his friend made a caustic comment while making demands on his hospitality. Nigel asked for a beer as he’d gambled away his dole money, so Adam bought the drinks. His hand was on the book in his jacket pocket, the letter securely in place between the pages.

  ‘Thanks for letting me stay. I’ll only be there a week.’

  Adam sat back in his chair, his arms crossed, scrutinising the man opposite. There’d been no thanks for the drink. And a week? Nigel had extended the time without a hint of awkwardness. Due to insomnia caused by the hoax letter Adam was distracted by thoughts of Sarah and it was hard to concentrate on Nigel’s pleas to stay a couple of nights.

  ‘You said a few days, Nigel. That’s what we agreed.’

  ‘A few days, a week. All the same really.’

  It wasn’t the same: a few days is not a week. Now was the time to lay down some rules. Now was the time to stand his ground.

  ‘Let’s settle on four days Nigel.’

  ‘Adam, you’re quibbling about three days. I know it’s a bit of a burden, but as I said, I’m in a bad way.’

  Adam had met Nigel at the University of London. They’d been close then. Their friendship had begun with an argument on a staircase leading up to a lecture room. Nigel had walked past with speed and had nudged Adam’s shoulder, almost knocking him over. ‘Hey, watch your step,’ Nigel had said with sarcasm and Adam had laughed weakly.

  When Sarah had gone missing, when the first few articles appeared, Nigel had been there for him and called twice a week for two months.

  At the time, reporters and cameramen were always outside the house, rowdy and boorish, crowding the front door. For a few days, Adam had been under suspicion, but this
hadn’t lasted as a solid alibi had been handed to the police. Darius had stayed in bed, screaming abuse at the press though a window. Due to the distance from the porch to Darius’s window, the ranting went unheard. The journalists asked questions in voices pregnant with accusation.

  ‘Adam, where is she?’

  ‘What have you done with Sarah?’

  ‘We just want to know where she is. People have a right to know.’

  ‘Oi, Adam, why you hiding?’

  ‘Yeah, what’re you hiding from?’

  ‘Where is she?’ ‘Where is she?’ ‘Where is she?’ ‘Where is she?’

  Nigel had been there most days and had been supportive. The reporters were like flies hovering over a cadaver. A plump man with a camera hammered on the front door and Nigel opened it. ‘We want to speak with Adam or his old man.’ Nigel punched the photographer, who staggered back, holding his nose. ‘Now you can all fuck off and leave Adam alone.’ The crowd dispersed, the flies searching for new flesh. Nigel had been around for a few weeks, mostly in the mornings when the press came, but then he was gone. He’d said work at the bank had become too demanding.

  Adam agreed to let Nigel stay a week, but wondered how he’d deal with Darius, and as he walked back from the pub, down some backstreets, the mist turned to fog. The letter was bothering him again and he wished it had never happened. Damn hope. Fuck hope. It was the Brooklyn business that troubled him. Sarah had always loved America, and he was trying to recall what she’d said about the States. As he entered his hallway, he remembered something about the Statue of Liberty.

  He rested on his bed and searched his mind for the comment she’d made about America. Then it came to him: ‘It’s great the Liberty statue’s a woman, isn’t it?’ That’s what she’d said, or something like it, but how would that help? So she liked a great landmark. It meant nothing. None of it. He was deceiving himself as he wanted it so badly. He felt the apparition come to him as it edged his way into his mind. The intrusive thoughts were becoming more frequent: he was walking in the same woods, the woods he’d walked through a thousand times, but this time Sarah was at his side and it wasn’t dark.