by Dan Proops
‘Adam, go get my breakfast. You’re standing there like a lost lamb. You need to be a bit more like Nigel—a real man there.’
‘I’ll get your tea.’
He made Darius’s breakfast, took it to him, then went to his room. It was a dull, cold morning with drab light emanating from a small window. He turned on a side light so he could read.
For the last few years, his life had been driven by the craving to search her out and end the uncertainty. Now, he knew she was alive, but there’d been the odd day when he wondered if they were hoaxes, due to his overenthusiastic imaginings: that they were from a sadist with a vivid imagination. But she’d mentioned things, many things that only she could know, including specific references to their childhood, experiences shared by the both of them. He’d questioned his state of mind since receiving the letters, and wondered why he wasn’t happier. There’d been the day the first letter had arrived where there’d been relief, shock and elation, but Sarah’s reappearance had also produced some conflict: the letters had created a new longing, to see her, to speak to her, and to tell others of her life.
He held the letter under the light and waited for a minute or so, enjoying the anticipation. He was about to open it when there was a knock on the door; he said, ‘Hello?’, then ‘Come in,’ and Nigel was there in his paisley dressing-gown holding a mug of coffee.
‘Adam, I’ve got a confession. I’ve been stealing your shampoo. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘And your soap.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry. When I make some money, the first thing on my list is new soap for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I had to tell you. I don’t like taking things from people.’
Nigel was frowning, and he looked awkward, as if he’d confessed to stealing thousands. He blew across the top of his mug, then took a sip of coffee. He apologised again for using the soap, then asked if he could borrow fifty quid. Adam said his savings were dwindling. Nigel shrugged, then said he didn’t have enough money for shampoo and if it was all right if he carried on using Adam’s.
‘Nigel, you’re welcome to my shampoo any time you want.’
‘Thanks, mate. I’ll repay you. When I get some money I’m going to buy you some new jumpers. And a load of soap. It’s odd you didn’t notice it, the shampoo.’
‘Why would I?’
‘Dunno—must be because you don’t shower often. Most people would notice if their shampoo was being used. Hygiene, Adam, hygiene.’
‘I’m busy. Can we speak later?’
‘How often do you shower?’
‘I have baths—three times a week.’
Nigel winked and ran a hand though his gleaming hair, waxed and neatly combed. He hovered for a moment more, said, ‘Cheers mate,’ then closed the bedroom door.
Hygiene? Nigel’s insinuation that he didn’t shower enough brought on frustration allied with the inability to control it. Adam would have to put a stop to Nigel’s put-downs, but they were subtle and insidious, and this made an angry response harder to procure. Adam’s rage towards Nigel rose in him like wildfire, and to prevent it spreading he reached for his letter-opener. With great care he ran it along the inside of the envelope.
Sarah was having trouble with her son. Oliver had been disruptive in class and had thrown a heavy book at a classmate. The boy had a wound on his leg and was rushed home, and his teacher, a Mr Wrighthall, had called Sarah to the school. She’d taken Oliver by the hand and apologised for what had happened.
Sarah had returned to her house in Brooklyn and called the boy’s mother, a Mrs Blythe. Sarah had said she hoped her son was all right, and Mrs Blythe said he was fine and was enjoying the attention. Sarah sent her a card saying how sorry she was and that Oliver was going through a difficult time.
Her husband, Alec, was a bullish man with wide shoulders and short hair, shaved at the sides. The day after the incident with Mrs Blythe’s son, Alec was reading the New York Post in their spacious front room. He told his son to stop playing with his train because he wanted a word with him. Oliver, quiet and apprehensive, stood in front of his father, who was settled in an armchair under a mirror framed in gold. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt Jack Blythe. I feel bad about it.’ Alec touched his son’s shoulder, then struck the side of his face. Oliver fell backwards, then cried and the tears streamed down his face.
It was the first time Alec hit him. I was so shocked Adam. I didn’t know what to do. It happened two days ago. Alec bought a property in Manhattan for two million and sold it at a loss. I know how angry he gets when he loses money on a property deal, but he’s never taken it out on his son.
Oliver’s been in a bad way for a week; he’s become withdrawn. And to be honest my anger towards Alec has been getting worse. He has a foul temper. But I have no power, Adam. He owns the house and pays the school fees. Sometimes I feel like leaving him.
Anyway, as it was the first time I let it pass. At the weekend I took Oliver and Maddie for a walk in Prospect Park. It was a beautiful afternoon, and—’
Adam heard the stick on the ceiling. ‘I’m busy!’ He shouted. ‘I’ll be up soon.’ There was silence. Then the thudding started again, louder. Adam put the letter in an ornate wooden box he’d bought, and went to Darius, who was hunched up in bed reading the Times.
‘Adam, this is yesterday’s paper. I want today’s.’
‘I’ll get you one later. I’m busy now.’
‘Busy with what? You look shaken. Has anything bad happened?’
‘No, but I’m reading. It’s important.’
‘When did reading become important? What’s so important that you can’t get me a paper? Tell me Adam; tell me if there’s anything on your mind. You look preoccupied. It must be a fascinating book.’
‘Dad, give me half an hour and I’ll get your paper.’
Darius sighed and pushed his stick in the direction of the door, which was his way of saying his son was dismissed. As Adam walked to the door his father coughed, a spluttering hacking cough, then Darius said: ‘I want to know what you’re reading. Maybe I’d like it.’ His voice sounded like gravel. ‘I’m only saying that because I don’t believe you’re reading a book. That’s a pathetic excuse. Couldn’t you have come up with something better?’ Adam turned to his father, whose arthritic hand was shaking, the hand that held his stick.
‘Dad, I’m reading Schopenhauer.’
‘Is that a joke? Since when have you read philosophy?’
‘I’ll be back soon with your paper.’
He turned from his father and made his way downstairs to his bedroom. He looked over to the table in the corner. There was a set of framed photos of when they were young, when Sarah climbed trees and acted like a tomboy; and a photograph of Darius, smiling, holding her, his face full of pride. They were taken a year before Adam’s mother died. He looked over at the father he’d once had, a man of optimism, a man of strength.
Darius had been working on his fourth novel when his wife died from cancer. And the man of creativity and kindness had turned into a curmudgeon, losing his temper at any provocation, however small. Darius took it out on his children, particularly Sarah, whom he belittled and insulted. He seemed unaware of the change the grief had on him, but his children hadn’t. They now had to deal with the loss of their mother, and a father who’d transformed from a man of compassion to a cantankerous bully.
Sarah, at the age of twelve, began to resent him. She and Adam had always been friends and these events brought them closer still. Adam’s bedroom walls were bare apart from a drawing Sarah had given to him, a few days after he’d bought her the bracelet. It was set in a frame above the bed: a watercolour of a wood or a forest.
Adam’s artwork, created a decade previously, was on a table under the window: metal sculptures of small cityscapes; they were a foot or so in length and were painted black. He’d once commanded high prices for his work, some selling for ten thousand. When
Sarah went missing, after the first months had passed, Adam stopped working and his gallery had dropped him. And he lost touch with most of the friends he’d made at university.
He ran a hand over one of the photographs of Sarah encased in sliver, and then retrieved her letter from the box.
Alec eventually apologised to me. Oliver knelt down by his father, wrapped his arms around him and said how much he loved him.
On a lighter note, at the weekend I took Oliver and Maddie for a walk in Prospect Park. It was a beautiful afternoon and the weather was mild—a cloudless sky. In the car, Oliver was quiet and ignored Maddie; she asked him if he was all right. She’s only four, but she worries about her brother. I think she knows he’s troubled. She loves him very much.
Adam, it’s so beautiful this time of year. We walked for a while and Maddie said she was tired so we found a clearing amongst the trees. There was a man there, feeding the birds. Did you know there are parrots in Prospect Park? The man was feeding them. I’ve seen him before as we often come to the woods.
There’s a wooden table under some maple trees where we have lunch. He’s friendly, the man, and he’s called Travis. Sometimes I give him a sandwich. He’s poor—he’s always hungry. He’s a big man and wears a dirty black coat with old food on his collar. He’s friendly though and is always kind to the kids. Oliver’s taken a liking to him. He calls him ‘Trav’ and Travis calls him Ollie. Travis seems like a good guy but he only speaks to the kids for a few minutes and then goes back to feeding the birds, the parrots. I think he’s lonely.
You’re a bit of an enigma Adam. I’m always talking to the kids about you. But it’s a bit early for me now; I think I’ll be ready to meet at some point, but I’m not sure when. I cut off from everyone over the first years in Brooklyn, but when I’m ready, when the time’s right, we’ll meet, but it probably won’t be for a good while yet. Please be patient.
For now, I hope you’re adhering to my request to keep my letters to yourself. I’m trusting you Adam. I know you could go to the police anytime, or tell Darius, or anyone for that matter. I don’t want anyone to know about me. I ran away for many reasons, the broken engagement being one of many. Also, I had to get away from Darius as he bullied me so much. I need my privacy, particularly as Oliver is going through such a difficult time. Since the incident with the Blythe boy it’s been hard to get him to go to school. Most days he lies in bed with depression for company, and he refuses everything but biscuits and milk. I’m worried for him Adam. I’m worried he’s getting worse. I want him to see a therapist, but he refuses.
I don’t want the press with their cameras harassing us. If they found me there’d be a load of them hanging outside my front door. I’d really hate that and it might make Oliver worse.
I love you with all my heart and hope my letters bring you some solace. You’re very special to me my darling brother.
The next day, Adam and Cassandra were walking in Richmond alongside the river. It was a frigid day with a light mist in the tall oaks on the opposite bank. Adam saw pigeons and sparrows deep in the trees, and thought of the parrots Sarah had mentioned.
They were walking towards a pub for lunch and saw windows, bright and inviting. The pub was quiet, just an old couple at a table in a far corner. A bay window overlooked the river and there was the scent of freshly cut flowers. A friendly woman with a warm smile came to their table and took their order. Cassandra had been speaking of the Holocaust and said she wished she’d never bought the book as she’d been morose for days, thinking of the huddled prisoners, cold and starving.
They sat at a table near a window.
‘A few years ago I read about it, and it upset me then. I don’t know why I bought the book. I can’t bear to think of their suffering, but I keep reading, and I don’t know why, because it upsets me so much. I feel I’d let them down if I stopped listening, if I stopped listening to the past.’
‘Sounds like you’re punishing yourself. You can’t help them now. Why don’t you give me the book, or throw it away?’
‘Throw it away and pretend it didn’t happen? As I sit in my warm comfortable house, I read about how these people were treated. I’ve stopped going to church.’
‘Cassandra, you’re not yourself. You’ve come to a crossroads and don’t know which road to take. And I’m powerless to help. I don’t believe in God, but I do believe in suffering. There are people half-dead, freezing and starving, out there now. Every day I walk past a man in his sixties who’s huddled under dirty blankets, sleeping in a filthy corner.’
‘Maybe I should give you the book. It’s not good for me. You’re right, I can’t help them.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘How’s it going with Nigel?’
Adam told her that Nigel was in a terrible state of guilt for stealing his soap, and mentioned his confession that he felt appalling for using his shampoo without permission. Cassandra laughed and said Nigel was a charming man.
Adam had brought Sarah’s letters. He could no longer bear the burden of secrecy. He was going to tell Cassandra that his sister was alive, living with her family in New York.
Ten
Cassandra’s initial reaction came in the form of a question. She asked how he knew they were from her. Over the years, Adam had received hoax letters: she’d been spotted in various places, usually somewhere in Europe; Spain seemed to be popular. Adam had taken the letters to the police. He’d spoken to an inspector Walker who’d examined them; then he’d call the next day and tell Adam that the letters were fabrications. Inspector Walker was a stout man in his fifties who wore braces. He had a florid complexion and his shoes were highly polished. DCI Walker was particular about his clothing and wore smart grey suits. He’d been involved in the search for Sarah from the outset. He’d been kind and compassionate, and had spent many mornings discussing the case with Darius.
The weeks turned into months and during that time, DCI Walker came to the house often. Karl Walker had made an error, an easy one to make, but an error nonetheless: he’d let his emotions get the better of him. He’d become obsessed with finding Sarah and sometimes this clouded his judgement. He’d take a day off if she’d been spotted somewhere and if the sighting was disproven.
Adam recalled a morning in late spring when Walker had arrived in one of his grey suits. Darius was in an armchair, reading the newspaper. He bought one every day, as if there might be good news. Adam let DCI Walker into the front room and offered him some tea.
‘I’m parched. Tea would be great, thanks, Adam. How are you, Darius?’
‘I’d be a damn sight better if you were doing your fucking job. Why haven’t you found her?’
DCI Walker had grown used to Darius, his frustration and expletives.
‘We’ve been doing everything possible. We can’t make miracles happen.’
‘What’re you doing here? Why aren’t you looking? I hope you’re enjoying your tea, relaxing in my front room when my daughter’s out there somewhere.’
‘Darius, I’ve worked very hard on this and we have an excellent team, but it’s been a long time. I have my doubts about it. You know how badly I want to find her.’
Adam had a great respect for Karl Walker, who’d worked all hours looking for her but, as time passed, Walker’s initial optimism had waned. Adam knew they’d never find her. He felt it as DCI Walker was sipping his tea, doing his best to console Darius with empty promises and clever rhetoric. Walker crossed his legs, sat well back in his chair and ran a hand though his hair.
‘I want you both to know how sorry I am. I wish we’d found her. It must be hard for you.’
‘You have no fucking idea how we feel,’ said Darius. ‘You’ve probably seen a ton cases like this, but please don’t pretend for a second you know how we feel.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve spent three years on this. But we’ve given up. It’s been a long time now.’
‘Given up? What’re you talking about? Please don’t give up, Karl. Please kee
p looking.’
Karl Walker stood up. He said the investigation had been called off. Karl straightened his tie. His head hung low, avoiding Darius’s gaze.
‘I’m sorry. It’s over.’
‘She’s not dead is she? Have you found her dead? No, you’ve found nothing but—’
‘We haven’t, but we presume she is.’
‘Get out of my house Karl. Go and look for her.’
Adam remembered Darius’s rage and desperation. And he remembered Walker’s kindness and devotion; he remembered it all.
Outside the pub the day was darkening, the twilight sky a blue-black. Streetlamps flickered into life. Cassandra was reading the letters, sipping at a gin and tonic, while Adam drank filter coffee and waited. She finished the last letter, and he asked what she thought of them. She adjusted her glasses and said she wanted to re-read them. An hour passed and Adam sat patiently.
‘Adam, these may be fakes. We’ve been through this before.’
‘They’re not. There’s stuff only she could have known about.’
‘I’d be surprised about that. Every detail of her life was in the press.’
‘I have every single press cutting. She’s spoken about stuff that happened when we were kids.’
‘I’m sorry, but I have my doubts. Why on earth wouldn’t she give you a return address? Why wouldn’t she want to see you? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘You’ve read all about her. She doesn’t want press attention. Trust me, I thought they were hoax garbage when they first came. But she’s spoken about times when we were young, when we were children. Specific things. She used to climb onto this branch, high above a climbing frame. She once dared me to join her. I fell and broke my arm. I was nine, Cassandra. It happened in our back garden. That was not in the press.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t want to crush your hopes but at the same time I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’
‘Hopes up? What d’you mean? I know it’s her.’
‘You want it to be her, Adam.’
‘Cassandra, is this a fucking joke? I’ve told you, there’s stuff she talks about that wasn’t in the press. Also it sounds like her. Why are you being negative?’