A Letter from Sarah

by Dan Proops

  Summer sunshine slanted through the dense canopies and Sarah said how beautiful the trees were. A bird with silver-blue plumage appeared in a pool of sunlight, and she said: ‘Look Adam, a bird! Be quiet.’ They crouched and were silent, and then the bird took flight.

  Then the fallen tree, and he was frightened of it. She said he was being an idiot and it was only a tree, but he backed away with slow steps. Then she was by his side no longer and he put up a hand to cover his eyes. He heard her voice: ‘Come and sit next to me Adam. You’re scared of a tree!’ He took the hand from his face, and looked at the bedding of the forest floor. The fallen tree obscured the view of her. ‘Adam! It’s only me and you’re being a silly-billy.’ Then she laughed.

  He walked to the voice and she was gone. In her place was a note:

  I killed her seven years ago, and you’ll never find her. And I enjoyed it. I took my time, small strokes with the razorblade, then I cut her throat like a pig, and as the blood flowed her body was all purple. Adam, it was my most enjoyable murder yet.

  Adam reached for his book, his fingers trembling. He sighed, and wondered why his mind had turned against him again.

  Over the next few days Nigel moved his meagre belongings into the house and something unexpected occurred. For some reason Darius took a liking to him: no histrionics or childish rages, just acceptance. The new guest had bought some chocolate digestives and a teapot. Adam looked on as Nigel stood in a paisley dressing gown making tea.

  ‘Nice teapot isn’t it?’ said Nigel.

  ‘Yes—looks expensive.’

  ‘It was. It’s bone china. Gambled my dole money and won, so I thought I’d get it and make real tea for the old man.’

  ‘I make real tea for him.’

  ‘Gotta have a teapot to make real tea.’

  Nigel took the kettle off the hob and opened the packet of chocolate digestives, then spoke of his dressing gown; it was made from a special fabric, from somewhere exotic.

  ‘Feel the material,’ he said. ‘It’s glorious.’

  Adam sighed, then said Darius didn’t like chocolate digestives. This was met with a smile and various gestures verging on arrogance. Nigel set the crockery on the tray. ‘Trust me,’ he said, ‘The old man’s gonna love ’em.’

  Adam followed him to Darius’s room, and Nigel had been right. Darius was all smiles and gratitude, and said it was a treat to have tea served from a pot. He said he was pleased someone in the house had some imagination and that chocolate digestives were a stroke of genius. Nigel said the teapot was a present, a small gesture, to show thanks for the hospitality offered to him. Darius smiled benevolently. Adam left them deep in conversation.

  He went to his room, doing his best to rein in the anger; he’d been making tea and biscuits every morning for years and had never been thanked for his efforts, not once. And now they were the best of friends. Adam put the letter in a wooden box, then placed it in a drawer. He wouldn’t think about it anymore; he’d forget about the hoax. In time he’d manage it.

  This wouldn’t be a problem, as three days later another letter from Sarah arrived.

  Five

  Adam was waiting for Cassandra in the Soldier’s Arms. It was like his other home and he was there to escape the sickly friendship festering between Nigel and his father. The pub’s chairs were old and worn, as was the leather seating lining the back wall. The carpet was stained and discoloured, balding in patches, the yellow weave showing through. A languid light drifted in through a window.

  Adam’s hand had been on the letter since he’d left the house, as if it might magically disappear from his pocket. It was long, typed, and signed. He’d skimmed though it. He’d see Cassandra and then go home and find out how they’d torture him this time. Another hoax, no doubt, but he wanted to savour the possibility of its veracity. He wanted to wait.

  Cassandra was sitting opposite and she’d mentioned an argument with someone at the library she worked in. The culprit had returned a book with a tear and an ink stain on the first page. Her speech was measured and she spoke slowly and with precision. It was her voice that had provoked Adam’s initial attraction. She’d had a religious upbringing, read the Bible and went to church weekly. This was at odds with Adam’s complete lack of spirituality. He had no idea how an intelligent woman could believe in a great being who was on the lookout for mankind. From Adam’s point of view God was doing a poor job of it. Cassandra spoke about her work.

  ‘I need a better job. A philosophy degree. Where’s that got me?’

  ‘You need to get out of there. You could become a teacher or something.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it now. How’s it going with Nigel?’

  ‘He’s made friends with Darius.’

  ‘That’s a surprise. Darius doesn’t like anyone, me included.’

  ‘Of course he likes you. He’s just cantankerous.’

  ‘No he doesn’t, Adam. Why d’you think I don’t go to your place. I’m sick of him putting me down.’

  ‘He’s a difficult man.’

  Cassandra asked if Adam had managed any artwork and then made her speech: if a man doesn’t work how was he supposed to succeed? She said a contentious attitude was of great importance. Adam did his best to listen as the lecture continued. Half his mind was on his indolence, the other on the letter. He nodded and smiled as Cassandra told him about various artists who worked eight hours a day, sometimes ten. Adam was tempted to say that sitting in a library reading all day was hardly work. He restrained himself.

  ‘You want to do well, don’t you, Adam? You sold a piece a month ago. Why haven’t you been working?’

  Did she want a fake answer? That he couldn’t afford materials, or they’d put the rent up, or some other nonsense; or did she want the truth: he’d been driven to the edge of sanity thinking about his sister. Adam thought for a moment, finished his whisky, and decided to lie. He looked into Cassandra’s eyes; they were very beautiful, an azure blue, like a sky over distant shores. He said he’d been unable to work due to some broken tools that needed replacing. Adam said he was going to the studio later that afternoon. She looked pleased with this, and then asked for another gin.

  Nigel arrived punctually at one; the procurer of the most glorious of teapots came to the table. They were to have lunch together. He was well turned out as usual, with a clean white shirt open at the collar and was wearing some silver cufflinks. His opener was: ‘Nice hair, Cassandra.’

  ‘Don’t know about that. It’s a bit drab. It’s not very shiny.’

  ‘It’s great hair, but you’re not doing your legs justice. You should wear a shorter skirt.’

  Cassandra blushed, then pulled her skirt a little higher so it was just above her knees. Nigel watched as she did this, smiling, amused by her covert action and coy smile.

  ‘Yeah, wear shorter skirts. Legs like that should be shown off.’

  ‘Short skirts are in at the moment. I suppose you’re right.’

  Nigel nodded like a sage as if his imparted knowledge had enlightened Cassandra: a compliment blended with his awareness of modern day couture. Adam was tempted to dislodge the conversation, but his silence was a statement in itself—that Nigel’s comments hadn’t bothered him, that he was secure in his relationship and didn’t need to intervene. But nothing could be further from the truth. After the skirt comment came another compliment about her coat. Cassandra said something about Nigel’s hair, that it was blond like hers.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll find another job in banking,’ she said. ‘The recession’s over.’

  ‘No doubt about it. I’ve already had a couple of offers.’

  Adam ignored the lie. Nigel hadn’t been looking for a job.

  They then became a duet: Adam should work hard as he was talented and it was a shame he was wasting it. A full-frontal assault followed. They went on and on about his gift, that it was a pity to have a talent and not to work, a sin, a crime almost.

  Cassandra returned from the bar with some
menus, and Nigel said how lucky he was to have such a ravishing girlfriend. Cassandra smiled, and then she was deep in conversation with Nigel Hawthorne. Adam had stopped listening as he was thinking of the letter, and as the lunch drifted on, his curiosity about it was pestering him. It was probably another hoax as it had arrived a week to the day since the last one, but it was longer. There were reams of hoax paper, written in hoax ink.

  ‘I’m going to the studio right now. You’re right. I should work harder.’

  ‘Good for you, mate. Get those hands working away.’

  ‘Yes Adam, Nigel’s right.’

  ‘See you guys later.’

  Adam left the pub and it started to rain. He had no intention of going to the studio. This was no time for creativity. He needed to be at home to read the letter. He rushed through the drizzle, turned off the Earl’s Court Road into an alleyway, then walked down another side street. He entered the flat, made some coffee and went to his room.

  He sat on the bed, his back against the wall, the coffee on a side table next to him. He started reading. She said it was cold in Brooklyn and it had been snowing, and some mornings she needed a shovel so she could make it out of the house. She told him about her family. The fake Sarah was married to a fake man in property. He owned six fake houses in Brooklyn, was affluent and she was comfortable financially, but not emotionally.

  Her husband worked hard and was preparing to buy three new houses in the spring. They lived in a brownstone with five floors, three bathrooms, and an attic which she’d turned into a study with shelves of books. She had two children: a four-year-old daughter and a son two years older. Her daughter was called Maddie, her son, Oliver.

  Adam folded the letter, drained of all energy. They were clever, these people. Very clever. They made it sound as if it was happening, as if she were really out there in this wonderful house, with children.

  He had an urge to tear it up. If only it were true, if only it was from Sarah. But why wouldn’t she have called or e-mailed? Why the letters? She’d never written letters before. He imagined her reading, hard at work in her study. Reading! How would this creative hoaxer know she liked to read? It was unlikely, but there was the possibility that it had been mentioned in one of the articles. Adam took a sip of coffee, now cold. He read on.

  Maddie was doing well in class; she was feisty and independent. On the whole she was well-behaved and was ahead of her year, irritating her fellow classmates by shooting her hand up at almost every question. Oliver was very different. He suffered from depression and bouts of rage, and had been expelled from two schools. And Sarah was finding it hard, dealing with him and his outbursts.

  Adam read, detached and emotionless. This was fiction, created by a malicious mind. But halfway through the letter she said something about Darius painting her room pink.

  Her bedroom was to be redecorated when Sarah was ten, and her pink walls were to be painted a stark white. Adam remembered her pacing to and fro, and her tantrum when her precious pink room was under threat. She’d stormed around the front room squealing: ‘Hateful, hateful white.’ And then she’d thrown herself onto Darius’s lap, pleading for pink. She’d said white was boring, for boring people, and demanded to know why her father wanted to re-paint her room. Darius had been patient with her and then agreed to her wishes. The room was untouched. This event had not been reported in any paper.

  Adam looked back to the past and remembered her outburst about her room, and now he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sarah was alive.

  Six

  He read the rest of the letter but found it hard to take it in. There was an explanation at the end of the last page under her signature, why she’d written and not contacted him by phone or e-mail. She said she preferred letters and hoped he liked receiving them. Sarah asked if he could keep her world a secret. If the police were informed, journalists would assault her house and she was worried for Oliver as he’d been though a particularly bad bout of depression. She said it would be hard for him if there was a press frenzy.

  Sarah was burdened with guilt for having put her family though ‘pure hell’ but she’d had to go, and to leave without explanations or goodbyes. Adam read the last few paragraphs.

  My lovely brother, I’m sorry about it all, I really am. But there are reasons why I left. I mentioned the bracelet in my last letter and I wear it every day. It’s very special to me, as you are. I hope you can forgive me for abandoning you. Remember the time we were in our old garden? Remember the climbing frame? It was hot that day, the day you fell, and I felt guilty when I dared you to climb up to the branch, and you broke your arm.

  I had the guilt that day real bad. I’d hurt you and felt bad for days. And now I feel bad about what’s happened, leaving you like that, and not contacting you for such a long time.

  Please don’t tell Darius about the letters. I don’t want him to know anything about me. I hope the old bastard’s rotting in Hell. Please bear with me, Adam. Look deep into your heart and find forgiveness. For I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done to you.

  Sarah

  Adam folded the letter and finished the dregs of the cold coffee. He was numb from it all. From the shock. From the reality. From hearing her speak. He’d wanted it so much and for so long. Now it had happened. The dream had become reality and his mind was in conflict, with countless emotions fighting for breath. His whole life, every step, every breath, every action had been for her, to seek her out.

  There was no return address, no way for him to speak, no voice for him to express his emotions, and he had so much to tell her. He was hungry for more of her life, to hear her voice embedded in the written word, her words. He lay for an hour looking at the ornate cornicing on the ceiling, and as the realisation that she was alive took shape, an excitement, like the coals of a newly lit fire, burnt within him.

  He heard the stick on the ceiling, quick volleys, then a pause, then the stick again. Adam placed the letter alongside the first one she’d sent. As he made his way to his father, he decided he’d buy a new box for the letters, something special, something ornate.

  Darius was sitting up in bed, a book open in his lap. Adam noticed folds of skin under his beard, withered and loose. His father tapped his stick on the floor, then spoke.

  ‘Been lazing around?’

  ‘I’ve been reading.’

  ‘Where’s Nigel?’

  ‘Probably out. Looking for work.’

  ‘He’s a good man. He’d have made a good son.’

  ‘What am I supposed to say to that?’

  ‘I didn’t say you weren’t a good son.’

  ‘You implied it.’

  ‘You’re accusing me of insulting you. I wasn’t.’

  Adam sat in the chair beside his father’s bed. He remembered the abuse Sarah had suffered in the years before she’d moved to New York. She’d broken off an engagement with a man Darius was keen to see her marry.

  Tony Dresco was a successful businessman and Sarah had been engaged to him for a year. Darius adored him and they spent many afternoons discussing business. Tony was a flamboyant man, wore flamboyant clothes, and had read all of Darius’s books. They had friendly chats about his novels: the ones Tony preferred and why. Darius had written thrillers and the villains in his books had psychopathic traits or other disorders of the mind. They became close friends and talked about literature, economics and commerce over whiskies in the front room; they shared similar views on culture and politics.

  And then Tony was gone from their lives when Sarah called off the engagement. Adam remembered her confession. She’d arranged to meet her father one July afternoon. They were in the front room drinking coffee, and Darius was smoking.

  ‘I’ve called off the engagement with Tony. I’m sorry, Dad. I know you liked him a lot.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘As serious as I’ve been about anything. I—’

  ‘You’ve been fucking that other guy, what’s his name …’

/>   ‘I love you, Dad.’

  ‘Get out.’

  The memory, like so many of his past, was vivid. Adam remembered Sarah staring at Darius with disbelief. She’d stood for a moment, defiant; arms crossed, and then looked over to Adam for support.

  ‘Dad, that’s ridiculous. Apologise to her.’

  ‘Keep quiet.’

  ‘Don’t be like this Dad, you—’

  ‘Shut up. Sarah, are you going? I’m not waiting all day.’

  Adam had tried to console her as she reached for her handbag. He’d arranged to meet her later that night at the bar in Trafalgar Square, the night she’d worn the red coat. The night she’d disappeared from their lives.

  Adam had refused to speak to his father for days and had only said one thing to him before leaving to meet Sarah at the bar: ‘Call her and say sorry. You owe her that. You owe yourself that.’ Darius had ignored him and said he felt ill and needed sleep. He seemed to lack remorse.

  As the weeks past, as panic grew, as her silence became more poignant, there was a change in Darius and he indulged in bouts of self-recrimination and regret. He said many times that he’d take the words back in a second and, on Sarah’s return, would make it up to her somehow. One morning he and Adam were sitting in the sullen gloom of the front room. It was a dull day with rain lashing against the window.

  ‘I feel terrible for what I said to her. I was out of control.’

  ‘Dad, you lost your temper. We all do that. You lost it for a bit, that’s all.’

  ‘I was abusive and horrible and now she’s gone. Why hasn’t she phoned? I hurt her, didn’t I?’

  ‘She hasn’t phoned me either. You’re determined to blame yourself, don’t.’